Sullivan's Justice (47 page)

Carolyn was dressed and waiting for Hank to pick her up and drive her to the office for the first time since that terrible night. Rebecca and John had already left for school. She looked over at the flowers Paul had sent her, picking up the card and reading his note. He’d done everything he possibly could to help her and the kids, but he had secrets. Her personality was built on integrity; she couldn’t be with a man who didn’t share the same values. Paul hadn’t been honest with her about his past. Melody had woken her up to that unfortunate reality.

Carolyn had fulfilled her promise to Rebecca and given Paul another chance. They had gone out to dinner and things had gone well. Two days later, a package containing three CDs from Melody had arrived with more videos of Paul having sex with young women she assumed had been his students.

Their relationship was over.

Carolyn had spent six miserable weeks in a wheelchair. At her next visit, the doctor was going to remove the cast on her foot, and he had told her she should have full use of her left arm and shoulder again.

Hearing a car pull into her driveway, she struggled on her crutches to maneuver the door open. Hank got out of the van and limped toward Carolyn, a broad smile on his face. “Come on, old man,” she yelled.

“Who, me?” he said, looking behind him. “I’m not old, just beaten. You ready?”

“Absolutely,” Carolyn said with a voice of certainty.

“What’s going on with Melody?” he asked once they were on the road. “The man who shot her died a few days ago. I talked to the DA this morning and confirmed they aren’t going to file criminal charges against her. If she hadn’t moved everything out of her house before we arrived with the search warrant, we might have been able to charge her with illegal electronic surveillance and withholding evidence in a homicide. We have no proof that the footage of the Goodwin murder was made by Melody. I guess she recorded the video she sent you with Paul in it from another computer, or she didn’t film the murder. These days, there’re cameras everywhere.” He stopped and pulled out a toothpick. “At least she did the right thing by her father. You said Neil told you that once she’s fully recovered, she’s going to fly back to New York and testify in front of the medical board. Maybe the poor guy will get his license back.”

Carolyn said, “You haven’t heard the latest, then.”

“No, I’ve been tied up on that stabbing case.”

“Some of the documents she showed me were forged, Hank. She legally changed her name to Melody Asher, all right, but she didn’t have the woman’s consent. The New York authorities have reopened the case, but the real Melody Asher hasn’t been located. There’s no record of her having married and taken up residence in Israel. Scary, huh?”

“She may have killed that girl,” Hank said, incredulous. “God, Carolyn, is Neil still seeing her? You’ve got to knock some sense into his head.”

“I’m working on it,” Carolyn told him. “Neil’s stubborn, Hank.”

When Hank parked at the government center, Carolyn’s eyes drifted to the windows of the jail. Moreno was dead, but there would be other violent criminals. She wouldn’t push her luck next time. It was a strange feeling being back at the building. Things had changed. She had killed a man; she would never be the same. The best way to put things behind her, though, was to get back to work. She could still accomplish some good in this world. She hobbled into Brad’s office and took a seat in a chair in front of his desk.

“Welcome back, baby,” he said, picking up a large stack of case files. “Ready to get back to work?”

“Do I look ready?”

He laughed. “You look better than when Hank dragged your ass out of the water.”

Brad had been a godsend. She didn’t know if she could have made it without him. He’d spent many days and nights sitting in a chair next to her hospital bed. What she had to decide was whether he sincerely cared for her or was merely an opportunist. Now that Paul was out of the picture, it had been the perfect time for him to make his move.

“Do you think they’ll convict Van Buren?”

“The case seems to be shaping up,” Carolyn said, resting the crutches against the adjacent chair. “I spoke to one of the federal prosecutors yesterday to find out when I have to testify. They caught a break. One of Van Buren’s men rolled over and agreed to testify against him. They found Dante Gilbiati’s body, the one who killed Moreno’s family and the Hartfields, in a grave at the Shady Oaks Cemetery. You know, that old place where the kids used to congregate on Halloween.”

Lawrence Van Buren had been arrested by the FBI and charged with treason, one count of first-degree murder as to Dante Gilbiati, and seven counts of conspiracy to commit murder, as well as murder for hire in the deaths of Laurel Goodwin and Suzanne Porter. He was awaiting trial in a federal court.

Brad made a paper airplane and sailed it at her, flashing a playful smile. “When are you going to be able to fool around?”

“You’re disgusting,” she said, scowling as she plucked the folded paper out of her hair. “All you ever talk about is sex and race cars. We’re at work, Brad. If we’re going to keep seeing each other, we need to keep a low profile.”

“Don’t you know when someone is joking? Oh, they said on the news that Interpol arrested that female assassin. What’s her name?”

“Claire Mellinger,” Carolyn answered, leaning forward. “When did you hear that?”

“On the radio as I drove to work today. Fascinating, really. Seems she’s in the advanced stages of multiple sclerosis. They caught her when she showed up for treatment at a clinic in Cannes, France. She has a kid and a husband. They say she can barely walk. How could she have killed anyone if she was in that bad of a condition? Because of the lingerie thing and the motorcycle outfit, we all thought the killer was a man.”

“Precisely what she wanted.” Carolyn was relieved Mellinger had been apprehended, but elements of the case intrigued her. “Charley Young thinks she was controlling the symptoms of her disease by taking a smaller dose of the same concoction she injected in Laurel Goodwin and Suzanne Porter. Remember, one of the elements found in the two bodies was a drug used to treat MS. Charley said the heroin and cocaine probably helped her to ease the pain and stay alert.”

Carolyn’s mind turned to thoughts of her mother. As per Marie Sullivan’s request, until her death, her father’s work in solving the Riemann hypothesis would remain unknown to the academic and scientific community. Carolyn hoped she could get her mother to change her mind before someone else solved it. Overall, though, she didn’t think her father had given much thought to winning a Nobel Prize. His satisfaction had been finding the solution to the problem.

She stared at the files on the corner of Brad’s desk. “Are you going to assign me all those? If so, I should get right on them.”

“Nah,” Brad told her. “I’ll go light on you for a while. When do you see the doctor again? The past six weeks have been pretty dry. I didn’t nurse you all this time for nothing.”

“Asshole,” Carolyn said, picking up her crutches and heading toward the door.

“That’s my girl,” Brad said, smiling.

 

 

 

The past year has given me a wide range of experience. My beautiful mother passed away. A new grandchild was born, precious Elle Laverne. I was remarried. My new husband, Dan, and his delightful daughter, Christina, are now a part of my extended family.

During the time I was writing this novel, I also underwent major surgery on my back. My oldest son, Forrest Blake, set aside his own work to lend a hand to his mother. Without his help, I know I wouldn’t have been able to deliver this book on time. I’m now completely healed, and hard at work on my next novel.

I would also like to thank my best friend and physical therapist, Heather Ehrlick, who came to visit me every day in the hospital as well as when I arrived home.

Many thanks to the entire staff at Kensington Books: my fabulous editor and friend, Michaela Hamilton, who always pushes me to go the extra mile; my publisher, Laurie Parkin; and of course, Steve Zacharius and Walter Zacharius. My agent, Arthur Klebanoff, for his efforts to organize and advance my career. My great family: my husband, Dan, who slept in the hospital beside me; Forrest, Jeannie, and Rachel; Hoyt, Barbara, Remy, Taylor, and Elle; Chessly, Jim, Jimmy, and Christian; Christina; Nancy Beth, Amy, and Mike, plus baby to come. To my sisters and brothers: Sharon and Jerry, Linda and John, and Bill and Jean; also my nephews, Nick, Mark, and Ryan.

Turn the page to read an excerpt from Nancy Taylor
Rosenberg’s next thriller featuring Ventura County probation
officer Carolyn Sullivan—

 

 

Coming from Kensington hardcover in May 2006!

A
s the sun disappeared and darkness fell, death lurked in the shadows. Outside, the winds were howling, causing the shutters in the cramped living room to rattle.

Eleanor Beckworth headed to the bedroom to change into her nightclothes. Even when she wore her slippers, the cold hardwood floors chafed her feet. She was a petite woman. Her weight had never risen over one hundred and twenty pounds. When she was younger, she had stood almost five feet four inches tall, but now she was barely five feet. Age had not only shriveled her skin, it had compressed her spine.

Eleanor stopped walking, sensing something. The atmosphere in the room felt different. Was it a change in the barometric pressure? Maybe the storm they were predicting for tomorrow was moving in early. She hoped not, as her roof was badly in need of repair and the boiler was acting up again. Reluctantly, she had called her handyman, Mitch, today. She had space heaters, but she knew they weren’t always safe, and she was terrified of fire. Maybe Mitch could patch the roof like he’d done the year before.

Eleanor tried to live on the money she received from Social Security, which was barely enough to pay the mortgage and buy groceries. She had twenty thousand in her savings account and a modest amount of equity in her house. She had pulled out most of the money over the years, but she wanted to leave something for her granddaughter when she died.

Glancing at Elizabeth’s pictures lined up on the walls in the hall, she touched her finger to her lip and then pressed it against her granddaughter’s face. She’d raised the girl from the age of three after her daughter, Anna, had been killed in a traffic accident. Since she hadn’t married the child’s father, the young man had left town, never to be heard from again. Eleanor gladly served as Elizabeth’s mother.

Elizabeth was such a darling girl, Eleanor thought, but terribly unlucky when it came to men. Her granddaughter had dated one young man for five years, letting him live with her in her apartment. The man had never contributed a dime, worked only a day or two a week, and refused to commit to a permanent relationship. Elizabeth had finally had no choice but to toss the freeloader out. Her little heart had been shattered.

Men living off women
, Eleanor thought in disgust. She remembered the days when a man opened your car door, took you out for a nice dinner, and treated you like a lady. They didn’t swoop down like vultures on lonely women, use them like prostitutes, and then take off as soon as they got bored or decided there was nothing more they could take.

“Oh, well,” she said, entering the bathroom. She hung her clothes on a hook so she could wear them the next day, and quickly stepped into her blue flannel nightgown. Once she had removed her dentures and was bundled up in her bathrobe, Eleanor performed her nightly rituals. She checked to make certain all the doors and windows were locked. She watered the plants on a ledge above the kitchen sink, then poured out the pills she took every night and placed them inside a plastic lid.

Eleanor had always thought her granddaughter would marry and live close by. She glanced at the clock and wondered why she hadn’t called yet. They spoke on the phone once a week, and Sunday was her night to call. She rarely phoned Elizabeth, as the girl sometimes talked for hours. Eleanor couldn’t afford to run up her bill calling California, where she now lived. Elizabeth must have lost track of time. She was a computer technician and worked out of her home.

When the phone rang, Eleanor rushed over and grabbed it. “Is that you, darling?” she said. “I was worried I wasn’t going to hear from you tonight.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier, Mom,” her granddaughter said. Since childhood, she had called Eleanor “Mother.” “Matt and I had a terrible fight.”

“Oh, my,” Eleanor said, “I thought your marriage was working out wonderfully.”

“So did I,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion. “Matt’s not the man I thought I married, Mother.”

“Dear, dear,” Eleanor said, taking a seat on a stool beside the phone, saddened by what she was hearing. “Maybe you’ve been on your computer too much and not paying him enough attention. A man needs to be doted on, honey. I’m sure you’ll work things out. Where’s Matt now?”

“I don’t know,” Elizabeth told her. “He got so angry. I’ve never seen him that mad. He’s been stomping around here all day. About an hour ago, he left without telling me where he was going.”

“It might make him even angrier if he hears us talking. What goes on in a marriage should remain between a husband and wife. No man wants people poking around in his private affairs.”

“You’re right,” her granddaughter said, sighing. “I’m sorry I said anything.” She paused and then whispered, “I think I hear Matt now. I’ll call you next week.”

“I love you,” Eleanor told her, hating to end the call so abruptly.

“I love you, too, Mom.”

 

 

Eleanor was asleep when she heard a noise. Glancing at the clock on the table by the bed, she saw that it was a few minutes past five in the morning. She was certain it was the garbage truck, but she decided to check. Putting on her robe and slippers, she made it halfway down the hall when she saw a large dark figure standing in front of her. “Get out of here!” she shrieked, her hand over her chest. “I have a gun. If you don’t leave, I’ll shoot you.”