The Fear Collector (30 page)

It’s about possession.”

—T
ED
B
UNDY

P
hillip Marciano was in his mid-seventies and he looked it. Maybe even older. His hair was combed over his pink pate in three parallel striations and his skin was white parchment. He looked slightly frail and he moved slowly. Very slowly. He and Jackie, his wife of almost fifty years, lived in a condo in Gig Harbor. It was a two-bedroom home, but the second, smaller bedroom had been converted to a library, befitting the world literature professor that he had been at the university. Or, would always be. He and Jackie had lived in Gig Harbor since his retirement, fifteen years ago.

Grace Alexander had called ahead, something she didn’t always do when working a case. She didn’t want to give a potential witness a head start in either running or in conjuring some kind of cover story. This case—her sister’s—didn’t really call for either.

At least that’s what Grace hoped.

When the detective appeared in their doorway, he introduced her to Jackie.

“This is Grace, Jackie,” he said, letting her inside. “She’s one of my students. She’s working on a novel.”

Jackie, a beautiful woman with cobalt eyes, and an orange scarf around her slender neck, smiled warmly.

“I wish Phil would finish
his
book,” she said with a little laugh. “Maybe you can inspire him.”

Grace nodded, going along with the lie as the old man led her from his wife to the library.

He shut the door and his smile faded.

“Look,” he said, “I understand how this is part of your family history. I recognize that you want answers, but this is my life now. We can’t always go back and fix things. I answered everything I could years ago. I truly don’t know how I can help you.”

He’d tried to shut her down, but Grace was undeterred.

“First, I’m grateful that you are seeing me now,” she said.

“What choice do I have? If I didn’t, you’ll blow this all out of proportion.”

“I’m not here to cause you any harm.”

“Just being here causes me harm.”

“May I sit?” she asked.

He nodded and motioned to a settee. Grace looked around the room. The walls were floor-to-ceiling books, many, judging by their covers, rare. This was not a library for show, but one that showcased the best novels ever written, amassed by a collector who could quote from many of them. On some of the shelves were family photos—Jackie, Phillip on vacation at the Grand Canyon and the Caymans, and other family members.

“Sorry, of course. No matter what you think of me, I still have manners.”

Grace looked up. Mrs. Marciano had entered the room with two cups of tea and a plate of biscotti.

“Darjeeling,” she said. “Just like Phil always served in his one-on-one sessions back in the day. Cookies are homemade.”

“Thanks, honey,” he said. “We’re going to get started.”

His tone was dismissive, but Jackie didn’t appear to mind.
She’s probably used to it
, Grace thought.

Grace took a cup from the table where Jackie had carefully placed it.

“She doesn’t know, does she?” she asked.

Phillip swallowed some tea, pondering it. “I honestly don’t know,” he said, softly. “I hope not. I have done everything I can to keep it quiet, to keep her out of it.”

“She suspected, though,” Grace said. “I read it in the interview report.”

“Yes. She made some complaints. She was fighting to keep me, not to hurt me. I was the fool here. Not her.”

He stopped talking, pondering once more.

“How was my sister . . . was it my sister?”

Silence.

“Professor?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“Are you all right?”

Again, a slight pause. A beat of silence. “I have pancreatic cancer,” he said. “I don’t know how much more time I have, how much I should say.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, which she was. She’d had an uncle who’d died of the same devastating disease. He’d go fast. “Do you know what happened to my sister?”

“I think I’m too tired to talk,” he said. “Maybe we should do this another time.”

Grace set down her tea and stood, inches from the professor, who now seemed smaller, frailer than he had when she arrived. She couldn’t allow herself to feel sorry for him. If he knew anything at all, he was a bastard for keeping it to himself for so many years. He was small, cruel man.

“You owe me and my mother an explanation,” Grace said. “Were you having an affair with Tricia?”

Finally, a look in his eye—a snap of recognition came to his face.

“No, no, I wasn’t, but . . . she knew about it, Detective. She saw me with her. She told me that what I was doing was wrong, which I already knew.”

“When did she confront you?” she asked.

“A week before she disappeared. It didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance. I wasn’t having an affair with her. I agreed with her that it was wrong. I broke it off.”

“How can you be sure it didn’t? Professor, how can you be sure?”

The professor looked up, his eyes full of tears.

“Because I’ve lived every day since then telling myself that very thing. That it didn’t matter. That it couldn’t matter.”

“Who was the student?”

Phillip kept his eyes cast downward. “Margaret Howell.”

The name was like a bullet to Grace’s chest.

“Peggy?” she asked. “You were involved with Peggy?”

The professor shook his head and finally looked up. “I was, like I’ve admitted to you a moment ago, a fool. I don’t like the word
involved
. It seems too personal. Too committed. I was stupid. We both were.”

He’s still justifying it
, she thought. “The reports I read indicated that the affair was only a rumor, that you were exonerated by the school.”

Phillip looked over in the direction of his wife as she moved down the hall toward the living room.

“She forgave me,” he said, overcome by emotion, but fighting to hold it together. “She told them that she’d lied. She gave me a second chance.”

That’s all that Grace wanted, too. A second chance.

“What did my sister do about it? Peggy was her best friend.”

The professor nodded. “The last time we had coffee, we talked about it. Your sister had urged Peggy to stop seeing me and she promised she would. For the most part, it was over. It really was.”

In the second-floor generic-as-can-be interview room, four people gathered to discuss Emma Rose. Only one knew something.
Maybe two
. Alex Morton looked worse than the proverbial deer in the headlights. The teen’s tough-guy attitude had evaporated. He trembled a little underneath the thin graphic T-shirt of some band Grace had never heard of, and his breath seemed a little short. He moved his hands from his lap to the table, as though he couldn’t seem to get comfortable. Not even a little bit. And in what was not a shocker to the detectives, in the seat next to Alex Morton was a lawyer, not his father. Nor was it surprising that the lawyer was one of the best in Tacoma.

Kiernan Weber was about sixty, a kind of genteel fellow who had served as a superior court judge in Tacoma before retiring to private practice. He came with the best reputation.

The best that money could buy.

A lot of money.

Palmer Morton’s money.

“I understand that you have some questions for my client,” he said in his characteristic deep baritone, a voice that routinely sent shivers down even the toughest defendant’s spine. Prosecutors and defense attorneys, too. “I hope we can answer them to your satisfaction today,” he said.

Grace had testified in Judge Weber’s courtroom a few times. This was the first time she’d seen him off the bench. She respected him, like most in the department. Yet, she wondered if money was so important that a man like Weber, with a pension as big as the moon, really needed to scoop up more of the green stuff.

“Judge, as you know, we’ve met your client.”

“And your client’s father,” Paul added, never missing a chance to turn the blade for a reaction.

Judge Weber nodded, refusing to play. “That’s right,” he said. “I understand all of that. And as far as I know, both have been cooperative.”

“Reasonably so,” Grace said, wanting to add something about how they had probably lied to her, but she let it go. Goodwill to the man next to the teenager trumped a sarcastic remark.

“That’s good to know,” he said. “I’ve always been on the side of cooperation.”

“We have some new information and we’re hoping that you can shed some light on it.”

“That’s why we’re here. Tell me, detectives, is my client a target of your investigation? There was certainly some drama in getting us all here this morning.”

“We’re trying to find a missing girl, Judge. We need help. We have reason to believe your client wasn’t completely candid when we talked with him at his residence,” she said, holding back the word
mansion
because it seemed so ludicrous to use that kind of loaded word. The kid was a kid. Whatever money he had came from inside his dad’s wallet.

Paul spoke up. “We also think that your client’s father wasn’t so truthful, either.”

Judge Weber’s face betrayed no emotion. He just listened and took it all in. It was hard for Grace to think of anything other than testifying in the judge’s courtroom. Hiring him to defend his son was a brilliant move on the part of Palmer Morton.

But maybe not enough so to save Alex.

“You’ve come across something new. Not sure if it’s evidence of anything, but something you wanted to talk about this morning.”

“Right,” Paul said.

“We want to show you something,” Grace said, sliding the DVD of the surveillance video from mall security into the player. Showing the image of Emma Rose talking to someone with the Mortons’ BMW 3 in the background was powerful. Powerful enough to maybe jar Alex into actually saying something of value. Grace and Paul had discussed the idea before the rich kid and the judge showed up. Neither saw it as tipping any hand to a potential killer, because there was no body, no clue, no nothing about the whereabouts of Emma Rose. Playing the clip of the parking lot was all they had. If he was charged later, Alex Morton would get to see the video through discovery. There’d be plenty of time for him to come up with an excuse, of course.

Alex sat stiffly in the chair. He was still by then, apparently, giving up the notion of getting comfortable in a place that could never be so.

“Do you mind if we ask your client a few questions?”

“I do mind, and I’ve advised Alex that it might be in his best interest to answer some. But he wants you to know that he liked the girl.”

“Are you talking about Emma Rose?” she asked.

The judge nodded while Alex just sat there, doing as he had undoubtedly been coached.

“Yes, of course. Emma Rose.”

“Fine,” she said. “May I direct a question to Alex?”

The judge looked at Alex and the young man nodded.

“Before doing so,” Judge Weber said, “is Alex a target of your investigation?”

Grace shook her head emphatically. “No.”

“Is he a suspect?”

“No,” she said, again decisively.

“Is he a person of interest?”

There was a slight hesitation, but Grace answered. “We’re just trying to find a missing girl. Alex might be able to help. Our focus, our sole focus, is on finding Emma.”

“All right,” the judge said. “What do you want to know?”

“How long did you date?” she asked the teen.

Judge Weber indicated for Alex to answer.

“A little while,” Alex said. “Not much. It wasn’t that serious.”

“But you liked her, right?”

Again, a little nod from the judge.

“Yes, I liked her.”

“Did you break up with her or did she break up with you?” Grace asked.

Before Alex Morton could answer, Paul leaned forward.

“She dumped you, right?” he asked.

Alex’s throat tightened and tried to remain calm. “I guess so. I guess she dumped me. So what? It wasn’t going to go anywhere.”

“You didn’t like being dumped, did you?” Paul asked.

Judge Weber shook his head. “Look, we’re not in a courtroom and by the line of your questions, I’m thinking that you’ve gathered us here for more than a little mere fact finding.” He turned to Grace. “I thought you had a video clip you wanted to show us? Isn’t that why we’re here?”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes fastened on Alex. “Getting to it.”

“You said that my client isn’t on the clip, correct?” he asked, his voice deeper and more forceful than ever.

She nodded. “Correct.”

Judge Weber appeared to size up the detectives before speaking. “You want us to look at the tape to see if there is anything Alex can tell you to be helpful. That’s all, correct?”

“Yes,” Paul said, a little irritated with the way the former judge was trying to control things like he was still in the black robe.

“Fine then. Then let’s roll the tape so we can get out of here. I have a Rotary meeting at noon.”

Grace reached over and pressed the P
LAY
button. While the DVD played, she kept her eyes on Alex. She knew that even a junior sociopath like she presumed he was would betray his feelings. Provided he had any. She’d done some background work on the boy—abandoned by his mother, being raised by an insufferable blowhard father—and she almost felt sorry for him. But if he had anything to do with Emma Rose’s disappearance, any sympathy she had would be gone. Right then everything was about trying to find the missing girl, hoping that she would be alive.

Hoping that she wasn’t the victim of a serial killer.

The screen showed the mostly empty parking lot. A few carts. A few cars. Then a figure of a young woman appeared. She was small, lithe. She started from the direction of the Starbucks and moved across the screen toward the transit stop.

“That’s Emma,” he said. “Quality sucks, but that’s her. She practically skips when she’s in a hurry.”

Alex kept his eyes riveted to the plasma. Grace kept her eyes on Alex.

Emma turned around and started talking to someone in the direction of the Starbucks. The angle was so poor it was hard to tell if she was angry, laughing, or what. Her shoulders moved rapidly and one hand flew up in the air. But it was hard to say if it was a gesture of recognition or one meant to rebuff someone.