Sullivan's Justice (29 page)

Bernini’s office was located in Sherman Oaks, a city on the outskirts of Los Angeles. Carolyn left and pushed the button for the elevator, then stepped inside and hit the speed dial for her mother’s number. “Did Neil show up?”

“No,” Marie answered. “You mean you haven’t found him? Oh, my, now I’m upset. My heart is beating too fast. I may have to call the paramedics.”

“Calm down,” Carolyn told her. “You’re fine, Mother. You have a pacemaker, remember? You called the paramedics three times last month and there was nothing wrong with you.”

“But Neil . . . he’s . . . he’s my baby boy.”

“Neil just came in the door,” Carolyn lied. “We’re at the attorney’s office. I’ll call you later tonight. Will you be all right, or do you want me to call Mrs. Bentley from next door? She could come over and sit with you for a few hours.”

“That old biddy,” she snapped. “Why would I want her snooping around my house? She’s a thief, you know. She stole my purse one time when I left my door unlocked.”

“She didn’t steal your purse, Mother,” Carolyn told her, sighing. “We found your purse under the bed. Maybe you should reconsider going into that nice retirement home near my house. They cook your meals, wash your clothes, and there’s a van to drive you around. The kids and I could spend more time with you if you moved to Ventura.”

“Heavens no! I’m fine. That place is for old people.”

Carolyn smiled when she heard the dial tone. Dealing with a parent in this stage of life was never easy. Her mother had become more demanding recently. In a way, it was fun, almost like a new game they were playing. When Marie Sullivan wanted attention, she’d pretend she was having a heart attack or make up some kind of story. Any mention of assisted living and she miraculously recovered.

She dialed the number for Neil’s cell phone. Once again, she got the message that his voice mail was full. She rode the elevator to the parking level, got out, and jogged to her car. Paul had let Neil borrow his BMW, so he could be anywhere. Melody was the best bet. Now that Laurel was gone, he needed someone to lean on. She had to find Melody’s address. Opening her glove box, she pulled out a stack of envelopes, the majority of them Christmas cards. To save time, she generally read her mail on her lunch break. “Great,” she said, finding a card from Melody.

Thirty minutes later, she rang the bell at Melody’s Brentwood home.

Melody came to the door in a tight-fitting animal print workout suit. She smiled as if nothing had transpired between them.

“Where’s my brother?”

“What do I look like? A babysitter? I gather you got the video I sent you. Paul’s a dirtbag, huh?” Melody flashed another smile. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, come in. I’ll fix us a drink.”

How could anyone be so insensitive? Carolyn thought, following her inside. Life was just a big game to Melody. This time, though, she was playing with a pro. If Carolyn could go head to head with a vicious killer like Raphael Moreno, she decided, she could make mincemeat of this skinny, pampered blonde.

She gazed in disgust at Melody’s lavish home. Her entire house could fit into her cavernous living room. The bronze sculptures seemed to be a collection of body parts. Two nude girls were huddled together in one piece, their legs extending several feet from the wall.

Carolyn walked over and stared at a large blue sculpture made out of blown glass. The top section consisted of a man’s nude torso, complete with an erect penis. When she saw the head underneath the body, she chuckled. At least she agreed with Melody as to where men’s minds were most of the time. Another piece consisted of nothing but a bronzed butt. How much money had Melody paid for that one?

On one wall was a huge painting, more or less the center-piece of the room. The only thing on the canvas was white paint and the number five. She should bring Rebecca over and let her paint Melody some pictures, scoop up a few buckets of that money she didn’t appear to know what to do with. God knows, they’d be better than this crap. And Neil, the classic artist, was spending his time with someone who’d thought this kind of stuff was art. No wonder he’d fallen in love with Laurel.

Melody led her into another room, which resembled a Miami nightclub, with mirrored ceilings and polished black granite floors. Situated in various places were garishly colored velvet chairs and sofas, and the room was illuminated with strangely shaped light figures. Melody ducked behind the bar and returned with two glasses. “Gin and tonic, right? Or would you rather have what I’m drinking, scotch?”

“I’m driving,” Carolyn said, scowling. “I don’t drink when I drive.”

“Oh,” Melody answered, acting surprised. “Neil and Paul do, so I assumed you did, too. I can drink most men under the table. My doctor says it’s my fast metabolism. That’s what probably keeps me so thin. Would you like something else then, a soda, juice, or coffee?”

Melody couldn’t really believe she came over to socialize. “I got the video.” Carolyn took a seat on a purple sofa, leaning forward for emphasis. “Why did you send it? What Paul did before we met doesn’t interest me. You wasted your time.”

“That’s not what Paul said when he called this afternoon,” Melody told her, flopping down in an orange high-backed chair. “He said you broke up with him. Good for you. Paul uses his teaching position to solicit sex from female students. You’re probably the oldest woman he’s dated since his divorce. I knew sending you the movie clip would upset you, but I was trying to help you. I thought you’d want to start the new year on a clean slate, find someone decent. You’re a nice lady, Carolyn. I know you don’t like me. Women have never liked me. I guess it’s a combination of my looks and money. Anyway, I couldn’t stand by and let Paul hurt you the way he hurt me.”

The oldest woman Paul had ever dated, Carolyn thought, infuriated. She was only thirty-eight. Who had he been sleeping with? Eighteen-year-olds? Simmer down, she told herself. Her relationship with Paul was over. She had come to find her brother, but the challenge to find out the truth about Melody Asher had also become important. Why couldn’t she crack her like she did criminals? With this new development, Melody might hold the key to Neil’s freedom in more ways than simply providing him with an alibi.

Who was this woman sitting across from her? Was she an impostor? Was she a murderer? Even if she’d killed Laurel, why would she kill Suzanne Porter? “Stay away from my brother, understand?”

“Where’d that come from?” Melody answered. “Don’t you think Neil is old enough to handle his own affairs?”

“No,” Carolyn said. “Not with someone as dangerous as you. You killed Laurel Goodwin, didn’t you? You found out Neil was seeing another woman and decided to get rid of her. Then you set it up to look like Neil did it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Melody said, laughing. “Neil means nothing to me. He was like a snack, something to hold me over until dinner. I’m dating Richard Fairchild. Neil knows. If you don’t believe me, ask him. Your brother’s mentally ill. Some time in jail might be good for him. I learned about people like Neil at the FBI Academy.” She saw the shock register on Carolyn’s face and quickly added, “No, I’m not an agent. I made it through the training program, but I dropped out to be a model. I hate to even mention this, but your little brother is the one you should be accusing of murdering those women.”

Melody attended the FBI Academy! Could it be true, or was it another of her elaborate fabrications? The woman was so complex, Carolyn thought, she wondered if they would ever be able to unravel her. “Neil didn’t kill anyone. You’re the one with the motive . . . jealous rage. Besides, you’re not even who you say you are. The police already know the truth, Jessica.”

Melody stood, her teeth clenched, a muscle in her cheek twitching. “What did you call me?”

Now the game was on. She wouldn’t have reacted this way unless what Hank had learned was true. “It’s your name, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not,” she argued. “You’re confused, Carolyn. I think it’s time for you to leave.”

“Your father’s out of jail,” she told her. “He’s talking to the police. You can’t pretend to be Melody Asher any longer, Jessica. Jessica Graham, right? Your father is Michael Graham. He was a cardiologist before he was convicted of killing your mother and brother eighteen years ago.”

Melody dropped down on the edge of the sofa. Her demeanor changed. The tension was gone, and her mouth hung slightly open. “You talked to my father? He’s already out of prison?”

“Yes, he is.”

Melody looked down at the floor. “Why did he call you?” she asked, raising her head. “Why didn’t he call me if he knew where I was?”

“He called the police,” Carolyn told her, ignoring her question. “Where’s the real Melody Asher? Did you kill her?”

“Of course not,” Melody said. “She’s an archaeologist. Mel married a Jewish anthropologist and moved to Israel years ago. I didn’t do anything wrong. All I did was use her name. That’s not a crime.”

“You’re wrong,” Carolyn said. “If she decides to press charges, you could go to jail. That is, if what you say is true. Her people told the police she was still missing.”

Melody flicked her hand. “That’s just for the media,” she said, her confidence returning. “Mel made up that story years ago to get the paparazzi to leave her alone. She won’t press charges. We’re friends. We grew up together.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “It started as a joke. Melody was planning her wedding. She didn’t want the press to show up and ruin it. They’d pestered her all her life. After her parents died, things got even worse. As you know, her family owned APC Pharmaceuticals. A reporter took a picture of me at a play one night after I’d become a blonde. I was with a guy Melody used to date, so the paper mistakenly identified me as Melody. When I called Mel up to tell her, she loved it. She called me back a few days later and asked me if I would use her name so she could live a normal life. It worked for me because of the situation with my father. I was about to marry a well-known fashion designer and was afraid someone might bring up my past.”

Carolyn was incredulous. Yet Melody appeared to be telling the truth. Her tone of voice was steady; she looked Carolyn straight in the eye without blinking. But she was also a world-class liar. “Wait a minute,” she said. “How old were you when this took place?”

“Eighteen,” she said. “The same age as Melody. Girls in Tuxedo Park mature fast. There’s a private school inside the park that teaches above grade level. Mel had her undergraduate degree by then. I didn’t do as well. You know, because of what happened. I hired a tutor, though, and managed to catch up pretty fast. At nineteen I was accepted at NYU. I majored in math and minored in psychology.”

“Weren’t Melody Asher’s attorneys concerned about her money and holdings?”

“No,” Melody said, taking another drink of her scotch. “Why would I need her money? I inherited a fortune from my mother. My brother was dead and my father couldn’t lay claim on the money because he killed her.”

“Then you got everything?”

“Yes,” she said. “But I don’t have anywhere near the amount of money Melody has. To be safe, her attorneys had me sign a document outlining what we’d done to make certain I didn’t make any claims on her estate. Then we went to court and legally changed my name. Her watchdogs weren’t crazy about the idea, but they didn’t have a choice. Melody could do anything she wanted.” She stood and walked to the bar, refilling her glass. “Anyone can change their name, you know. All you have to do is file a petition. Would you like to see the paperwork?”

“Yes,” Carolyn said, watching as Melody left the room. In a weird way, it made sense. She could see how the public might be fascinated by an eighteen-year-old girl worth over fifty million. On the other end of the spectrum, if she’d been Jessica, she wouldn’t want anyone to know that her father had gone to prison for murdering her family. Rich people, particularly society types like the Grahams and Ashers, lived in another dimension.

Melody returned with a large manila envelope, handed it to the probation officer, then quietly returned to her seat on the sofa.

Carolyn looked over the papers, most of them legal documents. There was a formal request for a name change filed in the state of New York, then an agreement signed by both parties, with the conditions that Melody had mentioned. Her suspicions were weakening. Because of the video, she realized how eager she’d been to expose Melody as a fraud and a killer. Perhaps her intentions had been sincere as to Paul as well, and she’d been smart enough to know that pictures were more powerful than words. Being Melody Asher or even Jessica Graham might not be so easy, after all. “It looks like your name is officially Melody Asher,” she said, handing back the papers. “How long has it been since you talked to your friend?”

Melody reached back and twisted her long blond hair into a knot. “A year, I think.”

“What name does she go under?”

“Well,” she said, her voice trailing off in exhaustion, “her husband’s name is Sam Goldstein. I think she still uses her first name, but I could be mistaken. A mutual friend told me she had a kid. I sent her a gift, but I never got a thank-you card. Maybe it didn’t get there. As far as I know, she still lives in Israel.”

Melody continued talking and Carolyn continued listening. Melody told her about the sexual abuse at the hands of her uncle and how she’d run away from the foster home. After a year on the street, she had been discovered by the Ford Modeling Agency.

Carolyn asked herself if Melody had exaggerated parts of the story to garner sympathy. “You say you were fourteen when you ran away. How could a girl that age possibly survive in Manhattan?”

“I had sex with rich men,” Melody said, rubbing her hands on her thighs. “By then, I was used to it.”

From the look on her face, Carolyn sensed she was telling the truth. A young girl forced to sell her body for food and shelter was in one of the most tragic conditions in the world. Melody had done everything possible to detach herself from her past. The bleached blond hair, the tough demeanor— they were nothing more than fragments of her armor. It was impossible to leave that much of yourself behind and continue living. She understood why Melody had wanted to take on someone else’s identity. “But couldn’t you have just called someone and had them send you money?”