Sarah Woods Mystery Series (Volume 6) (13 page)

Chapter 5

A
fter my visit with Andrew, I played the recording for Carter while we drove through town looking for a place to have lunch.

I hadn't said much about Andrew specifically, as I was still trying to form an opinion. My heart told me he was innocent, but my head wasn’t on board.

Carter didn't push me for details, but I knew he was curious to know my thoughts.

“He sounds sincere on the recording, doesn't he?” I asked. “Does he sound like a murderer to you?”

“He sounds desperate,” Carter said. “I guess I’d be desperate if I were in his shoes.”

“What do you think about Rachel’s two colleagues who died before her? I mean, what are the chances of that happening?”

“Pretty slim,” he said. “But I agree with Andrew; if the other two doctors were murdered, I’d say the deaths were connected for sure.”

“First things first, we have to call Jeffrey Patterson, Andrew's attorney, and arrange to pick up the case file. With any luck, maybe he'll be willing to talk to us.”

Carter pulled into an Appleby's just as I was dialing the attorney's number. The secretary informed me that her boss was in court until 1:00, but he would have time to meet with me at 2:00. That would give us enough time to drive to Hartford and find his office.

“If we end up taking the case,” I said. “We'll have to stay here in Connecticut and find a hotel. Who knows for how long? It could be many weeks.”

He shrugged, with a hint of a smile on his face. “No problem. We'll use my AARP discount.”

His attempt to make me laugh worked. It had been a running joke between us because Carter has refused to join what he calls
the old person's club.
At the tender age of fifty-six, Carter was anything but an old man, and I often reminded him of that. “Good. Sammy will be paying our expenses, and I don't want to gouge him. We’ll find the cheapest place we can.”

* * *

The attorney Jeffrey Patterson looked like an ex-football player. Around six-feet-five with broad shoulders and thick neck, he was an intimidating figure in a dark navy suit. His salt and pepper hair was thick, and so were his eyebrows.

After introductions had been made, he invited Carter and me to have a seat in his office. 

“Thanks for meeting with us on short notice,” I said. “Andrew McCarthy’s biological father hired us to look into the case.”

Patterson smiled easily, a hint of amusement playing on his lips. He was probably wondering why two private eyes from New Hampshire thought they were smarter than he was.

He leaned back, regarding us with fascination. “You want the case file?”

“Yes. Andrew said it wouldn’t be a problem. I know it might be an inconvenience, but we’d really appreciate...”

He waved his hand as if to say, this wasn’t an imposition at all. “I’ll have my secretary make copies for you. They should be ready for you to pick up tomorrow morning.”

“Really?” I hadn’t expected him to be so accommodating. “Thank you. That would be very helpful.”

Patterson shifted in his seat, as if he were about to get to his feet, but stopped cold when Carter asked the question.

“Just curious, why didn’t you let Andrew testify on the stand during the trial?”

He eased back into his chair and tilted his head. He interlaced his hand over his lap. “There was a chance he would’ve reacted negatively during the prosecutor’s cross examination.”

Carter scratched his head in confusion. “You mean, you thought he’d lose his temper?”

“Sure,” Patterson said. “It happens all the time. We couldn’t take that chance. It’s a common defense strategy.”

“Do you believe Andrew is innocent?” I asked.

Patterson hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Yes. I believe he’s innocent. Which is why I plan to file an appeal.”

“But unless some new evidence comes forward,” I said. “The judge won’t grant an appeal. Right?”

Patterson smiled again and nodded. “That’s right.”

“So, what kind of progress have you made?”

His jaw clenched as he glanced at his watch. “I’d like to discuss that with you, but I have another meeting in a few minutes. After you’ve had a chance to read the case file, I propose that we get together, and I can address your concerns at that point.”

Man, this guy was slick. He would’ve made an excellent politician. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks again for seeing us.”

Back in the Buick, Carter gave me an uneasy look. “That guy just fed us a bunch of bullshit; you realize that, right?”

“You don’t think he has any intention of working on Andrew’s case?”

“Of course not. Andrew is in jail and probably out of money because he gave it all to his lawyer. I’m sure Patterson has other cases to worry about. He’s probably glad to give us the case file, so we’ll do all the work for him.”

Carter had a good point. “So, what you’re saying is, we’re on our own?”

“I won’t lie, Sarah. This is going to be a challenge. And, no matter what you read in that file, I know you. You won’t turn Andrew away. So, let’s just drive home, pack our things and head straight back to Hartford. We’ll find a motel room and set up shop for the duration.”

I squeezed Carter’s hand. “I love that you know me so well. Thanks for agreeing to do this.”

“I hope you don’t end up disappointed, Sarah. Prepare yourself for the fact that Andrew might be playing us.”

It was almost five o’clock by the time we got back to Bridgeport and Sammy was waiting on Carter’s porch, looking nervous and tired.

“How is Andrew?” Sammy asked, his voice laced with concern as he followed us into the house.

There was no point in worrying him, so I tried to remain optimistic. “He seemed happy to see me. It was a bittersweet moment, I guess.”

Carter said to him, “If you don’t mind coming by to check on the house every few days, I’d appreciate it. We might be gone for a few weeks or longer.”

Sammy’s eyes grew wide with hope. “So that means you’re taking the case?”

“Yes,” I said; “but don’t get your hopes up.”

Sammy grabbed my hand and kissed it. “Thank you so much for doing this. I'll try not to call and bug you every day.”

“I’ll keep you posted on our progress,” I said. “But please be patient.”

He reached into the back pocket of his trousers and handed me a check for five thousand dollars. “The first installment,” he said. “I know you don't want to take my money, Sarah, but I'm not as poor as you might think. I have money put away for occasions like this.” When I didn’t take the check, he folded and stuffed it into my shirt pocket.

I knew Sammy would be offended if I tried to return the check, so I didn’t. “Maybe we’ll get a lucky break. Hopefully, we won’t have to use the entire five grand.”

“There will be expenses,” he said. “Not to mention the risk. Promise me that you and Carter will be careful.”

“We always are,” I said. “Try not to worry, okay?”

Sammy nodded and straightened his shoulders as if to demonstrate his solidity. “Are you heading back to Hartford tonight?”

“Yes. Just as soon as we get packed.”

“Well, then.” He leaned over to kiss my cheek. “I’ll let you get to it, my dear.”

After he left, I joined Carter out in the garage. He’d made a list of items to bring, new devices he’d ordered recently from his favorite online store:
Spies Like Us
. The list included: hidden surveillance cameras, recording devices, two stun guns, a poison detection kit, a bug detector and locator, burner phones, night vision goggles, a “bionic ear” for eavesdropping, and other spy gadgets that he’d yet to explain to me. “I’m pretty sure you could open your own spy store,” I teased him. “Is all this stuff really necessary? I mean, a poison detection kit? Really?”

“Always best to be prepared.” Then, with a straight face he said, “By the way, I already called and booked us a room at the Four Season’s resort in Hartford. Sammy won’t mind, will he?”

My response was a sarcastic chuckle. “I sure hope AARP gave you a huge discount.”

Chapter 6

W
hen I woke up the next morning in a strange bed, it took me a few seconds to remember where I was.

As it turned out, the Lincoln Motel in downtown Hartford that Carter booked wasn’t half bad. We had a king sized bed, a mini-fridge and a balcony with a killer view of a parking lot.

Patterson’s law office was conveniently located three blocks from our motel and, since the temperature hovered in the sixties, we proceeded on foot.

Once we had the case file, we decided to get breakfast at the diner across the street. While sipping coffee, Carter and I skimmed through the file page by page, jotting down notes as we went.

“Andrew told me that he was sure he’d locked the front door when he left his house the morning Rachel was killed,” I said. “When he got home from the gym, he said the door was unlocked. In the police report, it says the front door lock had not been tampered with.”

Carter looked up from his reading. “Which means that the killer probably had a spare key.”

“Yes. Or, Rachel let the person in the house, which would suggest that she’d trusted the person.”

“Unless, Rachel opened the door to find a gun or a knife staring her in her face. The intruder could’ve forced his way in.”

“Yet there was no apparent sign of a struggle,” I said, showing him pictures of the crime scene. “I mean, whoever killed Rachel had to be a pro or at least very clever. He, or she for that matter, didn’t leave any fingerprints, hair, DNA, nothing. My guess is, whoever did this had taken his or her sweet time to plan the attack and, unless there were two people involved, the killer must’ve been strong enough to drag her body out of the house and into a vehicle. A vehicle that nobody saw.”

Carter sighed heavily and took another sip of coffee. “Unless there’s a witness who’s afraid to come forward.”

I finished my English muffin and paid the bill. “Let’s head over to Andrew’s house now and take a look around.”

Carter plugged the address of 237 White Chapel Street into his GPS and, within ten minutes, we arrived on a quiet residential neighborhood that appeared to be upper middle-class. Andrew’s home was modest yet well maintained: a two story colonial with a two-car attached garage. We parked in the driveway and got out.

We casually made our way around the house and found the spare key, right where Andrew said it would be.

My stomach clenched as we walked into the kitchen and flipped on the lights.

“I guess no-one has gotten around to turning off the electricity,” Carter noted as he strolled into the living room. “Nice place, though.”

The house was appointed with quality appliances and furniture, with a definite feminine touch. The walls were covered in pastel colors of butternut and peach, more befitting a tropical location than a New England town. I imagined that Andrew had let Rachel decorate the place to her desire.

In the living area, I was immediately drawn to the framed photos lining the fireplace mantel. One of the photos showed Andrew and Rachel, cheek to cheek, posing for a selfie on a beach. Another picture showed an older couple in their sixties that could’ve been Andrew’s parents or Rachel’s. Another photo showed two young kids in their preteen years. Looked like a young Rachel with another boy about her age.

“This must be Rachel’s brother Michael,” I said, showing him the photo. 

“The homeless guy?”

“Yeah. According to the police report, the homicide detective was able to track him down to deliver the news about Rachel. Apparently, Michael had a negative reaction and attacked the detective, gave him a black eye.”

Carter winced. “Yeah. That happens sometimes. It sucks being the messenger.”

I meandered to the stairway and stopped, hand on the railing. “The bedrooms are up here.”

Carter followed me up the stairs. As we rounded the corner to the bedroom, I soon realized that there was nothing to worry about. There was no bloody scene here. In fact, it smelled of fresh paint. The carpeting looked new. The bed was gone. “I wonder if the bank is planning to foreclose on the place now that Andrew can’t make his mortgage payments.”

“Probably, but it won’t happen for a while,” he said, scanning the room. “Did Rachel and Andrew own this home together?”

“No. It’s only in Andrew’s name. He bought it in 2010. Rachel had moved in about three years ago.”

Carter inspected the closets. “All these clothes will probably end up at Good Will. What a shame.”

I felt a little guilty for going through her wardrobe, but I couldn’t resist. She had excellent taste. Judging by the brands, very expensive taste, too. I suppose as a doctor, she could afford nice things.”

We continued out to the garage, where a white colored Prius was parked inside. Unlocked, I searched the glove compartment for a registration. “This was Rachel’s. I wonder where Andrew’s car is.”

“Probably still in the evidence storage facility,” he said. “Which is where it will remain unless a family member makes claims to it. But since Andrew is in the jail and he has no other family...” He stopped when he realized what he’d said. “Well, I guess you and Sammy are his family now.”

I continued to search through Rachel’s car. The thing was spotless. “I suppose the cops have already gone through here, looking for clues.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t hurt to look twice.”

“There’s nothing in here anyway,” I said, closing up the car.

Just then, we heard a loud, agitated voice.

“Excuse me, what do you think you’re doing in here?”

Carter and I both turned our heads and saw the angry face of a man in the doorway.

“Good morning,” I said, moving toward him in a friendly manner. “My brother owns this house.”

The man had to be in his mid-thirties, dressed in a business suit straight out of Brooks Brothers. His blonde hair was slicked back with gel, giving it a yellow helmet effect.

“Andrew was an only child.” He reached for his cell phone in his trouser pocket. “I’m calling the police right now to report trespassers.”

“Hold on,” Carter said, showing him his palms. “Are you Neal Gammond, the next door neighbor?”

He slowly lowered his phone. “Yes, that’s me. How’d you know?”

“We’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Carter said. “Do you have a minute?”

He took a step back and narrowed his eyes. “Who are you? Who do you work for?”

Carter explained that we were private investigators, working with Andrew’s defense team.

“He’s a murderer,” Neal said with disgust. “Why would you want to help him?”

“Why don’t we go inside and sit down to talk.” Carter pointed to the door that led into the house.

Neal shook his head. “I’m gonna be late for work. Besides, I have nothing more to say.”

“Did you ever witness Andrew being abusive to Rachel?” I asked. “Did you see it with your own eyes?”

He blinked at me as if confused. “Sure, I did. Several times. It was horrible. Andrew is not a nice man.”

Neal kept fidgeting and seemed uncomfortable in his own skin. His voice was whiny, the high-pitched tone grating to my ears. In fact, he reminded me of a well-dressed weasel with coiffed hair. “If Andrew was abusive,” I said. “Then why didn’t Rachel just move out? She could afford to have her own place. I mean, she was a doctor wasn’t she?”

He rolled his eyes theatrically. “Well, I don’t know why she stayed. Maybe he threatened her.”

“Andrew doesn’t have a single black mark on his record,” I said. “He’s never been arrested. His friends say he’s a great guy. Tell me, why do
you
hate him so much?”

Neal sniffed scornfully as he turned on his heel to leave. “I don’t have time for this.”

We heard his loafers clicking down the walkway at a fast pace. Moments later, we heard a car door slam.

“He’s an awkward little man, isn’t he?” Carter said, motioning for me to follow him outside, just in time to see Neal drive away in a brown Ford Taurus.

“I don’t trust him,” I said, looking towards the house to the right. “I wonder if he happens to live alone.”

“I can sure find out.” Carter retrieved his cell phone and punched in some numbers. Probably the address of Neal’s house. Within five minutes he had an answer. “Yup. Neal Gammond lives alone. I’ll do a background check on him and see what turns up.”

“I can’t wait to find out what this guy does for work.”

Back inside the house, I went into the basement and found some boxes. Old photo albums and trinkets of his childhood. I couldn’t resist wondering what Andrew looked like in various stages of growing up. According to the vast amount of pictures, his adoptive parents adored and cherished him, which warmed my heart. There were several prom pictures that made me laugh. He was as awkward and pimply in those early teenaged years - and the long shaggy hair that was popular in the early eighties, yikes. Not a good look. Still, those blue eyes sparkled with laughter.

When Carter joined me ten minutes later, he was chuckling to himself. “Go ahead and try to guess what Neal does for a living.”

“I don’t know. Does he sell insurance?”

“Nope. He’s a limo driver for Bayside Limousine Services. Been working there for three and a half years.”

“With his snarky attitude, I can’t imagine he makes good tips.”

Carter laughed. “Yeah, well, maybe he can turn on the charm when he needs to.”

“What else can you tell me about Neal?”

Carter shrugged. “He doesn’t have a record if that’s what you’re wondering. He’s never been married, either.”

“Andrew mentioned he was gay.”

“Well, that isn’t something that shows up in a background check, unless he was arrested for giving a hand job in public.”

“Thanks for that visual, by the way.” I set aside Andrew’s photo album and got to my feet. “I’m not really sure what I’m looking for, but I doubt I’ll find Rachel’s killer in here.”

“Ah,” Carter said, tapping his finger on his phone. “I think I’ve figured out why Neal was so protective of Rachel. His parents got divorced when he was pretty young. Apparently, his father abused his mother repeatedly until she ended up in the hospital. Almost died.”

“Wow. I suppose when Neal heard Andrew and Rachel fighting, it triggered a negative memory from his childhood, when he couldn’t protect him mom from his brute of a father. Guilt has a way of manifesting itself later in life.”

Carter gave me the look. “You sound like a therapist.”

“Still. Neal had no right to assume Andrew was hurting Rachel.”

We locked up Andrew’s house, placed the spare key under the rock, and then returned to the car.

“What next?” Carter asked.

“Let’s call Roger Shefke. According to Andrew, he was Rachel’s friend and business associate. I’d like to ask him a few questions about the book she was writing.”