No Safe Secret (15 page)

M
olly yawned and opened her last bottle of Coke, glad she had thought to toss them in the cooler with the water. There was a small coffee machine in the room, but she was saving that for the morning. She was a beast when she woke up and didn't have coffee, a habit she developed when she had worked at Lou's.

She wasn't sure where to start, so she decided to Google her name. Her
real
name. She typed “Madeline Rose Carmichael” in the browser. The wireless in the hotel was slow, or else there were too many users. It took a full two minutes before her results flashed on the screen. There were more than six hundred thousand hits. She scrolled through, searching for what, she wasn't sure, but when she saw it, she would know. After thirty minutes and twenty-three pages, she concluded that she wasn't getting anywhere. There were way too many Madeline Rose Carmichaels in the world. It was late, and she was tired, but she needed answers to questions she should have asked a long time ago.

Next, she typed in “Blossom City, Florida, June, 1994.”

Her stomach was in knots as she waited for the results to appear on the screen. There were fourteen hits.

A fire in the early-morning hours at the tomato-canning factory. No injuries and minor damage.

Nothing new there, she thought. There were accidents at the factory all the time. She clicked on the next link.

Two graduating seniors had received college scholarships. Someone she didn't remember, Cindy Ann Burkette, had received a four-year scholarship to Florida State University. Good for her, she thought, and tried to call up a face to match the name, but couldn't. Maddy had been a loner, not too many friends except for Brett and Carla, and, of course, Cassie, but she'd moved away before high school. She continued to read the article.

Karen Clark had been granted a four-year full athletic scholarship to the University of Florida.

She knew Karen, at least knew who she was. She'd been captain of the cheerleading team. Molly remembered how friendly she'd been to her on prom night. Not buddy-buddy friendly, but she'd waved at her that night when she'd walked into the gymnasium all alone.

Molly's heart rate increased a bit with this knowledge. Had Karen become a career woman? Or had she married and had a family? Or had she done both? It didn't matter, but Molly remembered her from a few classes. She hadn't been especially smart, but she had been very athletic.
Good for her
, she thought, as she clicked on the next link.

This article contained a photo, so it took a few minutes to download. She decided to take a bathroom break while the page loaded. She washed her hands and looked in the mirror. Bluish-purple crescents had formed beneath her eyes, and her skin was pale and dull. She didn't care at this point. She'd been scared out of her mind today, and add the beating from Tanner, the bruise on her cheek, and her lack of sleep, and really, she thought, given the circumstances, it's a miracle she looked as alive as she did. She saw her makeup case on the bathroom counter and dotted a bit of concealer on the bruise. She couldn't look at herself any longer. She returned to the small desk.

The link she'd been waiting to load was up. She rubbed her eyes, and began reading the article.

She began to shake as she read. Fear turned her stomach into knots, and a cold, icy fright gripped her heart like a sponge, squeezing out all thoughts of rationality. A panic unlike any she'd ever experienced welled in her throat. Her pulse beat so erratically, she feared she would suffer a heart attack. Her hands shook as she tried to scroll through the remainder of the article. She almost gave in to the tension that had been building in her all day, but she couldn't. Not yet. She took a deep breath, yet there was no relief. Her hands felt numb, and the tips of her fingers started to tingle. She swallowed several times. Her throat felt as if she'd sucked dust through a straw. She reached for the bottle of Coke and gulped its contents down. She had to calm herself before she passed out. She rolled the desk chair away from the computer and closed her eyes. Taking slow, deep breaths, she forced herself to focus on something calming.

Kristen.
She would be leaving for her first bike trip shortly. Molly imagined her long, muscled legs as she pedaled through the French countryside. Her long blond hair would be in a braid flying behind her as she made her way through the small villages. Charlotte would ride alongside her, and they would laugh about a boy they knew or some silly gossip.

Yes
, Molly thought,
I can do this
. She took a deep breath, and slowly released it. She mentally forced herself to calm down. She'd had a panic attack, nothing more. She'd had them off and on when she'd first arrived in the Boston area, but it had been years since she'd experienced a full-blown one. She took another deep breath, then another, and released it slowly.

Focus
, she thought as she inhaled again. This will pass. Another breath, exhale. She leaned back in the chair and did her best to clear her mind. Molly needed to get a grip or she wouldn't be able to function. She was alone and had to take care of herself. She'd been in this same place many years ago and survived. She would do so again.

Determined yet still shaking, she rolled the chair back to the desk. Her screen saver, a beautiful mountain scene, filled the monitor. When she placed her index finger on the touch pad, the screen came back to life. The article she'd read flashed back at her like an evil serpent, daring her to continue.

She threw her shoulders back, stretched her arms out, then rolled her head from side to side in order to release the tension and kinks in her neck. Another deep breath, and she started reading the article again, from the beginning.

She read through it three times just to make sure she hadn't imagined the facts or the face in the picture. It made sense now. Though it had been more than twenty-one years, his features were still the same. He had aged very well, she thought now, as she focused on the photograph of a person who had only recently been in her home. She had calmed down enough to plot her next move.

Clearing the screen for a new search, she Googled his name and the city where he lived. Several hits came up. She opened the first link. Again, his smiling face, though this time his wife stood beside him as he received a humanitarian award from a charity that helped survivors of sexual abuse. The article went on to say that the son of a bitch and his wife were among the top financial donors.

Her next Google search was for similar organizations. The first thing that came up was RAINN.

The article stated that RAINN, the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network, was the largest anti–sexual violence organization in the country and one of “America's 100 Best Charities,” according to
Worth
magazine. It ended with a hotline number, adding that the hotline had helped more than one hundred thousand assault victims.

The organization was huge. She skimmed through the Web site, searching for his name, but it wasn't there. As she was about to click out of the site, another
GET INFO
link caught her eye. It offered information on several topics: statistics, how to reduce your risk of sexual assault, the effects of sexual assault, reporting the crime to the police, and the one that really grabbed her: the aftermath of sexual violence. The Web site explained how one might wish to receive medical attention and about making a safety plan if you were living in a dangerous home environment, but what caught her attention was the contents of what constituted a rape kit.

DNA evidence was collected from a crime scene, but the article went on to explain that it could also be collected from your body. But what interested her the most was that DNA could also be collected from clothes and other personal belongings.

Though she'd sworn that she would burn that ugly teal prom dress, she never had. She wasn't sure why she'd kept it all these years. She didn't need a reminder of the night that had changed her life, but nonetheless, she'd preserved the dress as best she could after she'd taken the job with Tanner. Until then, she'd kept the dress in the original plastic wastebasket liner until she had moved in with Sarah. Because she didn't want to see the ugly reminder, she'd then sealed the dress in a brown paper bag and kept the bag in a backpack she'd purchased. She didn't know a lot about preserving DNA, but there was a small chance that one of her attackers had left behind some trace of DNA. She remembered waking up, her dress tattered and torn, and she remembered the dampness between her legs. Thinking of it caused her heart to hammer, but she distinctly remembered using the front of the dress to wipe off the slime between her legs. She told herself it was highly doubtful that any DNA was on the dress, and even more doubtful that after a little more than twenty-one years, it could be identified.

The dress in question was now stored in a safe place.

Before she shut down her computer, she had another idea. While Blossom City wasn't much of a city, back in the day it had a weekly newspaper, the
Blossom City Banner
. It reported on church bazaars, births, deaths, weddings, and any crime, typically speeding tickets, drunk and disorderly conduct, and the occasional domestic call. Nothing that she now considered real news.

She Googled the paper and immediately came up with a hit. She clicked on the link, stunned that it was still in production, what with most small-town papers having succumbed due to the cyber world. She scrolled down the page until she came across the paper's archives. “Really,” she muttered.

Amazed at the professionalism, she clicked on the link and saw that content went back as far as 1989. “Wow. Unreal.” Her voice was dry and scratchy.

She took another long swig of her Coke and clicked on the year 1994.

She clicked on the month of June.

Apparently it had been a quiet month. A couple of weddings, typical for the month of June. She found herself looking at the obituary page even though she knew it wasn't a good idea. This could ruin her life. Given the woman she was now, she knew she would have to turn herself in for the crime she'd committed all those years ago, but she also knew that she had to know. She'd been in denial for all of her adult life. It was time to face the facts.

She surfed through the names of the deceased one by one.

Albert George Jameson, eighty-five.

Wanda Sue Goodman, sixty-seven.

Lenore Royer Carmichael, fifty-three.

She gasped when she saw the name. She was shocked, and it took her several minutes to calm herself. That was her mother. She glanced over the obit to see if it listed the cause of death. Nothing.

Again, her hands trembled, but she had to know. She read the brief obituary, and when she saw that her mother was survived by her son, Marcus William Carmichael, she was stunned. There was no mention of her. She tried to drum up some emotion for the loss of her mother, but couldn't. While she'd been shocked at seeing her mother's name, she hadn't been surprised. She had most likely died of an overdose. And she'd only been fifty-three years old. Why had she thought her mother was much older? Because she looked twenty years older, given her years as a drug abuser. She hadn't even known her mother's real age.

Shaken, but not enough to stop, she continued searching the obits, looking for a name from that night long ago. There was nothing, but that didn't mean she hadn't killed one of those bastards. Not everyone put an obit in the paper, especially when they realized that there was a charge for doing so.

She continued to scan the archives, searching for car accidents, anything that would link her to that night, but she found nothing. She went back to the obits and read her mother's again.

Lenore
Royer
Carmichael.

When she realized the enormity of her discovery, she was shocked. Did this mean what she thought it meant?

And where the offense is, let the great axe fall.
—William Shakespeare

D
etective Bryan Whitmore didn't make a habit of going out on calls to file a missing person report, but he knew Dr. McCann wouldn't have called him unless it was a true emergency. He hadn't asked for details over the phone because it didn't work that way, and the doctor hadn't offered up anything other than that he'd had an argument with his wife and she was missing.

He looked at the address. Riverbend Road, one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Goldenhills. The doctor charged a small fortune to crown a tooth, so he wasn't surprised at the ritzy address. He drove down the long driveway, parking his unmarked Ford as close to the front of the house as possible. He gazed at the McMansion and shook his head.
Some people.
He walked up the small set of steps and rang the doorbell.

He'd barely had a chance to remove his hand from the doorbell before the door swung open. “Detective, please come in,” Tanner McCann said, stepping aside.

“Of course,” Bryan said. He removed a pad from inside his shirt pocket. He patted around searching for a pen with no luck.

“Let's go into the den. We'll be more comfortable there.”

Bryan wondered if the doctor was the one who felt more comfortable in his den, but he kept the thought to himself. He'd been to the doctor's office in Goldenhills several times. Dr. McCann was an excellent dentist. He was professional, and he always had a great manner with him and, he assumed, with the rest of his patients. He recalled his being a bit sharp with his dental assistant, but he wasn't judging him. Maybe his assistant was new to the job, who knew?

He followed him down a hall to a set of giant wooden double doors, the kind he saw in those old black-and-white movies he watched on Sunday afternoons when he was bored out of his mind. Since his divorce, weekends stunk. By mutual agreement, Paula, his ex-wife, had custody of their fifteen-year-old daughter, Marty. His job required him to be on call twenty-four-seven, while Paula's job as principal at Golden Elementary was pretty routine as far as hours went. He hated not seeing his daughter every weekend, but he and his ex had both decided that their marriage wasn't working and had divorced when Marty was eleven. Marty had been sad, but she made the best of the situation. As far as Bryan could tell, she hadn't been damaged by their divorce.

“Detective, can I offer you something to drink?” The doctor poured himself a drink from a minibar on the far side of the room.

“No, I'm on duty, but thanks. Now, tell me about your wife.” If McCann had been that concerned, Bryan thought, there would be more of an emotional reaction, but as far as he could see, at least so far, the man acted like he'd invited him over to shoot the breeze. However, he knew from twenty years' experience that people reacted differently in stressful situations.

The doctor motioned for him to sit in a burgundy-leather wing chair in front of his massive desk. As soon as he was seated, Dr. McCann seated himself behind the desk. Putting himself in a position of power, Bryan thought.

“Here.” The good doctor handed him a fountain pen. Apparently he'd been watching him.

“Thanks, now why don't you tell me about this argument you and your wife had.” He flipped the small leather notebook open, preparing to take notes in a shorthand that only he could read.

Tanner smiled. “It's almost embarrassing, but I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I didn't follow the proper procedures. I'm—”

“Sorry to interrupt, but what exactly do you mean by ‘proper procedures'?”

“As I was about to say, Detective, I'm quite familiar with the proper procedures when filing a police report.”

“I don't understand,” he replied.
Let the good doctor talk.

“I lost my first wife, Elaine.”

Bryan scribbled the name in his notebook. “How long ago?”

“When the twins were toddlers. Over twenty-one years ago. It seems like yesterday.” He took a drink of the golden liquid in his glass.

“And you had to file a police report then?” he asked.

“Yes. She had an accident.” Tanner shook his head. “It was the worst day of my life when she died.”

Bryan rearranged himself in the uncomfortable chair. The doctor must've known how uncomfortable it was when he invited him to sit down. “What kind of accident?” he asked, wondering just how long the doctor planned on talking about his dead wife before he actually mentioned his current one, the one he claimed was missing.

“She fell down the stairs when the twins were just a few months old. I tried to revive her, but her skull was crushed. Still, I had to try. I just couldn't . . . it was hard with two babies. I hoped to save her life so they wouldn't grow up without a mother, but I met Molly when the boys were nine months old. When I met her, I knew right away that I'd met my soul mate. She's younger by ten years. We have a seventeen-year-old daughter, Kristen. She's in France right now. A high-school graduation trip.”

“Doc, have you been drinking?” He had to ask. The doctor wasn't making sense, jumping all over the place.

He nodded. “I had a few drinks with a friend before I came home, and this.” He held up his glass. “I'm not inebriated, if that's what you're asking.”

“No, of course not. I just had to ask given that you're drinking now. I wasn't sure. Just want to make sure we're both clear on the details, that's all. Go on, you were telling me about your wife.”
The dead one
, he thought, but didn't dare voice this.

“Yes, I was. She's great. Really. Cooks like a pro. You should see the dinner parties she throws. I met her in a diner where she worked. Hey, maybe we'll have you over some night. You can see for yourself.”

Bryan thought the doctor was not only drunk but slightly off. He'd never been invited to dinner by one of his doctors, let alone one whose wife was missing.

“Yes, well then, let's talk about her. Her name is . . .” He looked blankly at the doctor “What did you say? I'm sorry, we're all over the place. My memory isn't getting any better with age.” He liked to act like an airhead, kind of like Peter Falk in
Columbo
. It put people at ease. And that's when they let their guard down.

“Her name is Molly.”

“Oh yes. Right. Molly. Now, tell me about the argument you two had.”

“We had a few guests over for dinner last night. Doctors who want to invest in my fourth office. We're going to be nationwide in the future. People like pretty white teeth. It's a good investment if you're interested, though you probably don't have money to invest in a dental clinic.” He laughed. “Sorry, I get excited when I start talking about the future in dentistry. We had dinner, then dessert. Molly served coffee, no, she didn't serve coffee. She set the pot on the buffet, and we served ourselves. She had some kind of cake she'd purchased at Gloria's, that organic market she can't seem to stay out of. Their prices are out of sight, too. Don't shop there, you'll go broke. As we were having dessert, Holden, my son, took a bad fall. He's the older of the twins by four minutes. I ran upstairs to see what the noise was. Graham was standing at the top of the staircase, scared to death. Apparently, Holden had tripped over the mess on his bedroom floor, hit his head on the corner of the bed, and knocked himself out. Cold as ice. I checked his pulse, and well, I am a doctor. After I determined he was okay, I told Molly to please ask our guests to leave since we had a family emergency. She did, but as soon as they were gone, she went crazy. She accused Holden of using drugs, she tore up a four-thousand-dollar dress, and, basically, she went ballistic.”

Bryan nodded and continued to write in his notebook. “You didn't try to calm her down?”

“Of course I did, but as I said, she went crazy. She kept saying things about the boys that weren't true and told me she'd hated them since day one, and well, as a father, that's the last thing you want your wife to say about your kids, no matter how old they are. She took a nasty fall, smacked the you know what out of her cheek. Then, when Kristen saw how her mother was acting, she insisted that she come into her room. Molly stayed there all night. At least I think she was there all night. I'm sure she took Kristen to the airport this morning.”

Bryan scribbled more information, but he had a memory like an elephant. If he missed writing it down, he'd remember it, no matter what. It was his best skill as a detective—at least he liked to think it was one of his best skills. “Are you saying you haven't seen her since your argument last night when she went to your daughter's room?”

“Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying.”

Though this could be a typical case of a pissed-off wife who was staying with friends—or in this case, maybe some fancy spa—his gut told him otherwise. He'd learned a very long time ago to listen to his gut instinct, as he was rarely wrong when he did.

“Normally, we like to wait twenty-four hours before we start a formal investigation, but if we deem the circumstances appropriate, we will begin investigating immediately. Would it be possible to speak with your sons?”

The look on the doctor's face spoke volumes. Anger, Bryan could see it. Hell, on this man, he could smell it.

“No, that's not possible. As I told you, Holden suffered a head injury and wouldn't recall anything useful.”

“And your other son? Graham, I believe. I'd like to speak with him.” It was not a question.

“I'm afraid that's not possible, either. Graham wouldn't have anything to offer.”

“Dr. McCann, why don't you let me decide what's useful and what isn't. You called me because you're concerned about your wife. I'm here to help. If your son Graham is here, I'd like to speak to him.”

“He's out on a date. How in the hell did I forget that?” He laughed and stood up to pour himself another drink. “You sure you don't want something? A soda? Water? I might've had a bit too much to drink; I swear it completely slipped my mind. Graham called me this evening and told me he was going out and not to wait up.”

“Did he call your cell phone? The number you called me from?” Bryan was curious what excuse he'd come up with now.

“Of course he did.”

“Then you wouldn't mind showing me your cell phone, for when you received the call? Just procedure, but, of course, you know this.” He laughed.

“Not at all.” He removed his cell phone from his pocket and handed it to him.

“Thanks, what's Graham's number? The one he would have called from?”

“It's 617-555-0325.”

Bryan pulled up the recent calls, making a note to remember the other numbers as he scrolled through them; he'd jot a few down if he had to. He went through them carefully, but didn't find the number. One more time, and he handed the phone back to Dr. McCann. “I can't seem to locate that number. Maybe there is another number he could have called from?”

“Shoot, I might've deleted it. Sorry.”

“Okay, Dr. McCann. Let's talk about where your wife might be. Does she have a friend she'd stay with, a favorite spa, a hotel, someplace we can start searching. And what about her car. I'll need the make and model, and the license-plate number.”

“That's the big mystery. Her car is still in the garage.”
This is getting screwier by the minute,
Bryan thought. “Would a friend have picked her up? How did she take your daughter to the airport this morning? Does she have another car?”

“No, she doesn't have anyone who would drive her to the airport when there is no need. Kristen has a car, but it's in the shop now. Barry's Automotive. You can check it out. It's a 2014 Honda Civic. She took it in for a tune-up a couple of days ago. It should've been ready by now. That's why Molly had to drive her to the airport.”

He knew Barry's; he took his own car there. That would be easy to check. He jotted down a few more notes, then closed the notebook and laid the fountain pen on top of the doctor's desk. He stood up and walked across the room to the set of wooden doors.

“I thought you were going to write up a missing person report. What's the problem?” Tanner followed him to the door.

Bryan stopped at the exit. “Dr. McCann, I can't see there's any cause for concern. You had a fight. You're pretty sure Molly drove your daughter to the airport, and your sons have nothing to offer. I'm guessing—and humor me, as this is an educated guess—your wife will come home tomorrow full of apologies, you will take her to some fancy place for dinner, then come home and kiss and make up. I just don't see any reason to start an investigation.”

“So you're telling me I'm crazy? Is that what you're saying? I know my wife, dammit! If I say she's missing, she's missing. Get out of my house! I plan on calling your superior the second you leave, so prepare yourself. If I have anything to say, your incompetent ass will be out of a job. Now get the hell out of my house!”

Bryan walked down the long hallway to the front door and let himself out.

After hearing what Dr. McCann had to say, Bryan had, with no compunction, lied to him. He did indeed plan on starting an investigation, but it wasn't into the disappearance of the doctor's wife, at least not yet.

No, he planned to start an investigation into the doctor's background.