The Last to Know (20 page)

“And you can’t think of anyone who’d have a reason to want either of them dead?”

Tasha flinches. “No.”

That’s it. She’s done talking to me
, Paula realizes, watching a veil descend over Tasha’s face.

It was the word
dead
. Too strong. Paula shouldn’t have used it. But she momentarily forgot to tread carefully. Maybe she can still—

“You know what? I’ve got to go up and check on the kids,” Tasha says abruptly. “Right now.”

“I’ll wait here . . .”

“No. I’d rather have you leave . . . if you don’t mind.”

She’s trying to be firm, Paula realizes, but it isn’t really her nature. Good. She might get something out of Tasha Banks yet. But not today.

“Can we get together again and talk about this?” Paula asks. “Maybe meet for coffee in a day or two, when things die down? How about while your husband’s away? Maybe you’ll feel like getting out of the house.”

“I’d have my kids with me. . . .”

“Then we can make it pizza. Look, I’ll call you,” Paula says hurriedly. She fishes in her purse and hands over a card. “In the meantime, here’s my number. Office, home, cell phone. If you think of anything at all that might help, call me. Please.”

“I will,” Tasha says, glancing at the card, then at Paula.

“I really am sorry about your friend,” Paula tells her, pressing her hand gently, holding it more than shaking it. “Look, if there’s anything I can do for you—even just taking your kids off your hands—let me know. Okay?”

Tasha looks surprised. “Thank you.”

Paula smiles. “Like I said, I’m a mom, too. I know how draining it is when they’re so young. Just take it easy, okay?”

“I’ll try. And maybe we can have coffee or pizza or something.”

“I’d like that. See you, Tasha.”

Paula walks out the front door and glances at the house across the street. The throng has swelled. There’ll be no getting near Ben Leiberman today.

She glances down the block.

The Gallaghers’ house is barely visible from here, but she can clearly see a silver Mercedes parked in the driveway. For a moment she considers a confrontation with Fletch.

No.

Not yet.

It’s too soon.

She has to wait until the time is right.

“M
itchell?”

He looks up from the masked, robed figure he’s doodling on the inside of his notebook cover with a black ballpoint pen.

Uh-oh. Miss Bright is watching him. He was supposed to be working on the questions at the end of section three in his science textbook.

“Yeah?” Mitch asks cautiously.

“I’ve just received a note.” She waves a piece of paper in her hand.

Mitch frowns. He hadn’t even seen a messenger from the office.

Well, that’s because he was so caught up in what he was drawing—and in worrying about the killer on the loose in Townsend Heights.

Looks like Lianne was right about that. His mother woke him up early this morning and sent him to Blake’s, saying there had been a murder and she had to go cover it.

It turned out something happened to another lady from Townsend Heights. Mitch did his best not to show how scared he was as he watched the Channel 12 news with Blake’s family before school, scanning the crowd outside the dead lady’s house for his mom’s face. He thought he’d seen her once, but he wasn’t sure.

“You’re wanted in the principal’s office immediately,” Miss Bright tells Mitch. “Bring your books with you.”

There’s a quiet snicker behind him.

“What’d you do this time, Bailey?” Robbie Sussman whispers.

He frowns. He hasn’t done anything. Why would he be wanted in the principal’s office? Unless . . .

There’s a sickening thud in his stomach.

Mom.

Has something happened to her?

He grabs his notebook and textbook and forces his rubbery legs to carry him toward the door.

S
tanding at her kitchen sink, Karen pours the last of the coffee in the pot down the drain. It’s grown dark and bitter after sitting on the hot burner for several hours. She made it around three this morning, when she and Tom had realized they wouldn’t be able to get any more sleep and might as well get up for good.

She replays the events of the past six hours again, forcing herself to remember every detail—to confront the realization that what happened to Rachel could have happened to her. Or so it seems.

She, too, was alone in the house around midnight. She, too, turned out the lights and went up to bed, deciding not to wait up for her husband.

Tom came home soon afterward, crawling into bed beside her, finding her still awake. She snuggled against his reassuring warmth, telling him that the baby was sleeping soundly, apparently over the worst of her illness. Tom, in turn, told her about his ordeal with the client and that the man wanted to meet with him again the next day.

They made love, then—quietly, quickly—before Karen drifted off to sleep in her husband’s arms.

Sirens awakened them both. Only when they realized the police cars were rushing up their quiet dead-end street did they climb out of bed to see what had happened. It was Tom who walked down the block, then returned with the shocking news of Rachel’s murder.

Even now, hours later, Karen still can’t quite absorb what has happened.

She can’t grasp the fact that her friend is dead.

Not just dead.
Murdered
. Violently. In her own bed.

At least, that’s what Tom told her. But he was fuzzy on the details, saying that the cops had tried to shoo him away, and that he couldn’t even talk to Ben Leiberman, who was distraught.

Now Tom is dozing on the couch.

Taylor is in her swing, having greedily sucked down her morning bottle, which means she’s back to normal.

Earlier, Karen spoke to Tasha. She hadn’t known anything more than what Tom had told Karen. She had Rachel’s children at her house and was doing her best to shield them from the scene across the street. Karen knows she should offer to go down there and help. She can always leave Taylor with Tom. Yet some part of her is reluctant to confront what has happened. As long as she stays here at home, in her safe little cocoon, she can avoid the horror of the truth for a while longer.

But not forever
 
. . .

Out of the corner of her eye, Karen spots a sudden movement through the window above the sink. She glances up.

Jeremiah Gallagher, clad in a heavy parka, jeans, and boots, is walking across the yard next door.

No, not walking.

Slinking
, Karen thinks. There’s something decidedly furtive about the way he’s moving. As though he’s up to something and he’s worried somebody might catch him.

She sets the coffee pot in the sink and instinctively steps back away from the window. Just in case he glances in her direction and sees her watching.

She can still see him from here, through the space between the white ruffled curtains. But he won’t see her.

What in the world is he doing? He’s going into the storage shed again and closing the door behind him.

Why?

What’s in there?

Karen toys with a strand of her long, dark hair, wondering what to do. Should she wake Tom and tell him?

Why would she? Just because the boy next door has gone into the storage shed?

No, she reminds herself. Because the boy next door is the last person who saw Rachel alive. And now he’s acting suspiciously. As though there’s something in the shed that he doesn’t want anyone to know about.

Karen’s eyes narrow as the door to the shed abruptly opens again.

Jeremiah emerges, carrying something. Karen glimpses it: a dark bundle of some sort.

He pauses in the yard.

For a moment she expects him to turn toward the house again with his bundle, giving her a better view.

Instead he hurries toward the dense woods at the back of the property, looking over his shoulder as though expecting to be followed.

Karen waits until he disappears between the trees. Then she turns away from the window, wondering what to do.

Chapter 9

“A
re you sure Mom’s okay?” Mitch asks his father as Frank Ferrante switches lanes, following a green highway sign that reads
WHITESTONE BRIDGE
. This is the road they take every weekend to Long Island, but it’s usually Friday night when they go, and it takes a lot longer because of the rush-hour traffic.

Right now, at eleven-something on a Friday morning, there isn’t much traffic. They left Mitch’s house only half an hour ago, after stopping there so that he could grab some clothes for the weekend.

“I’m sure your mother’s fine,” Mitch’s father tells him.

“And she said it was okay if I got out of school early to go with you?” Mitch asks doubtfully.

“It’s fine, Mitch. I’m your father. It’s not like I’m kidnapping you. I can get you out of school and bring you home with me early if I have to. Like I said, I was in town on business this morning and I don’t see any reason to hang around waiting until after school to pick you up.”

Mitch nods. That makes sense. But it’s hard to believe that his mother said it would be okay for his father to spend extra time with him. She doesn’t agree with much of anything his dad says or does, especially when Mitch is involved.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“What will we do when we get to Long Island?”

“I figure we’ll stop and have some lunch,” his father tells him. “There’s a great new place not far from my house. You like spaghetti, right?”

“It’s my favorite food.”

“That’s because you’re Italian,” his father says, looking pleased.

“Mom’s not Italian.”

“But I am. And you’re half mine. So you’re half Italian.”

“Really? I never thought of that before.”

“That’s because your mother changed your name,” his father growls. “It should be the same as mine. Ferrante. She has you going by Bailey.”

“Yeah.” Uncomfortable, Mitch looks out the window at the green-and-pink signs designating the express lanes at the toll bridge. There’s no backup here, either. They’ll probably be at the restaurant in half an hour, or even less. “What will we do after lunch, Dad?”

“I’ll drop you off at home. Shawna will be there. I have some business I have to take care of this afternoon.”

“Oh.” Mitch is disappointed. He’d been hoping that he and his father might be able to spend the day together, just the two of them.

Now he’ll have to hang around with Shawna until his dad gets back.

Oh, well. He figures it’s still better than staying in school. Maybe he can tune her out and fool around with the Sony PlayStation his father bought him.

He grins and turns to look out his window at the distant New York City skyline as they cruise over the bridge. The sky is a brilliant blue, and the bright October sunlight glints on a plane that is just coming in for a landing at La Guardia airport, directly to the west.

“It sure is nice,” he comments.

“What is?”

“The view,” Mitch tells his father.

“It is pretty nice,” his dad agrees, glancing in that direction and smiling.

For a brief moment, Mitch feels like he’s absolutely bursting with happiness.

Then he remembers his mother. She’s all alone back home. What if the killer goes after her next? There’ll be no one to protect her. Maybe Mitch shouldn’t leave right now. Maybe he should skip this weekend on Long Island.

“Dad?” Mitch asks, his heart beating really fast.

“Hmm?”

He pauses. Looks at his father.

“Never mind,” Mitch says, and turns back to the view of the skyline.

“T
asha?”

“Ben!” She clutches the telephone receiver tightly against her ear. “Are you okay? Oh, Ben . . .” She breaks off on a choking sob and presses her hand to her quavering lips. This is the first time she’s spoken to him today.

“How are the kids?” he asks hoarsely. “Are they okay?”

“They don’t know. . . .” She sinks into a kitchen chair.

“I have to tell them. I need to see them.”

“Do you want me to bring them over?”

“I’m not at home, Tasha.”

“Where are you?”

“At the police station.”

For some reason, this catches her off guard. All morning, she’s assumed he’s in seclusion across the street. But if he’s at the police station . . . “Ben, they don’t think you—”

“I don’t know what they think! They’ve been questioning me all night, all morning. I keep saying I don’t know what happened. All I know is that I came home late—I got buried in paperwork at the office. When I got here, I found her. In bed. And I . . . I didn’t even know it was her, her head was so . . . If she hadn’t been wearing that black lacy thing of hers I wouldn’t have even believed it was really her. . . .”

“Ben.” Tasha bites back a sob. “Oh, God . . .”

“Listen,” he says, getting hold of himself. “My sister is picking up the kids in about an hour. Okay? Just tell them that Aunt Carol is coming, and that I’ll see them at her house. If they ask about Rachel . . .”

“They have been,” Tasha tells him, her insides roiling with grief.

“Tell them that—no.” He changes his mind. His voice is tight “No, don’t tell them anything. I’ll tell them.”

“Okay, Ben. Okay. And if you need anything . . .”

“Thanks, Tasha.”

She barely manages to murmur some inane reply before hanging up and bursting into tears all over again.

“Oh, Rachel,” she says softly, wiping her nose with a soggy tissue from her pocket. “What happened to you? Who did this to you?”

She sits in her silent kitchen, listening to the muffled sound of the children’s voices upstairs. Noah and Max are napping, but Hunter is playing ring-around-a-rosy with the girls. The three of them are giggling.

They’re so innocent
, Tasha thinks.
They have no idea that their world is falling apart around them
.

She desperately wants to call Joel, needing to bare her sorrow, needing comfort. But she knows there’s no way to reach him. He’s not at the office; he’s at the shoot, and she’s already tried his cell phone twice. There was no answer.

You’d think he would call her to make sure she and the kids are okay. Well, maybe he will. Or maybe he’s already on his way home. He said he would get back here as soon as he could.

The doorbell rings.

Tasha sighs. It’s been doing that all morning. It’s the press every time. She’ll have to ignore it . . . again.

She thinks about that reporter from the local paper. She was different from the others who have turned up on the Bankses’ doorstep. Not as pushy or brusque, and she didn’t have a camera crew—or even a notebook. She really seemed to care about Rachel. Jane Kendall, too. Like she can relate to them, just as Tasha can. Tasha wonders if Paula, like Tasha, is wondering, with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, who might be next.

The doorbell rings again.

Remembering that Ben said his sister would be coming to pick up the kids, Tasha reluctantly goes to answer it. Ben said she wouldn’t be here for an hour, but maybe he was wrong.

“Who is it?” she calls through the door, wishing it had a window so that she could just look out and glimpse whoever’s standing on the other side. The door is solid wood, and the narrow foyer windows on either side are positioned so that from inside the house there’s no way to see who is ringing the bell.

For the first time, it occurs to Tasha that this isn’t very safe. In the city, they had a peephole. Four or five locks, too.

Here there’s only one latch. It has never occurred to Tasha that they might need something more. She has always felt safe in Townsend Heights.

“My name is George DeFand, Mrs. Banks,” a masculine voice says. “I’m with the
New York Post
. I was wondering if—”

“Leave me alone!” she calls through the door, suddenly as angry as she is weary. “Just go. I don’t have anything to say.”

He persists until she threatens to call the police. Even then, she isn’t sure he’s really gone until she looks out the window and sees a male figure retreating toward the street.

The circus in front of the Leibermans’ house looks like the scene in front of the Kendalls’ home these past few days. How many times has she turned on the television and seen a view of their stately brick mansion surrounded by police and reporters?

It has obviously received full coverage on the national news. Her mother called from Centerbrook earlier, worried, having recognized Rachel’s name and the images of Orchard Lane. Tasha assured her that she and Joel and the children are safe. That they’ll keep in touch, and yes, they’re coming for Christmas. They just haven’t had time to make arrangements, but they will. As soon as things die down . . .

Tasha wonders again whether what happened to Rachel has anything to do with Jane Kendall’s disappearance. She’s been mulling it over all morning, ever since Paula Bailey asked her about it. Half the time Tasha concludes that the two cases must be linked. The other half, she tells herself that this could just be a coincidence.

After all, Rachel has turned up dead. Jane hasn’t . . .

Yet
, a voice whispers ominously in her head.

“J
eremiah?” Fletch knocks on his nephew’s door again, then calls more loudly. “Jeremiah?”

No reply.

He pauses only a moment before turning the knob. If it were Derek or Randi sullenly barricaded inside, ignoring him, he’d have done it without hesitation. But then, Derek and Randi are his own kids. Jeremiah belongs to his brother.

Fletch has consciously tried to avoid invading his nephew’s privacy ever since the boy moved in here, giving him as much space as he seems to need. After all, he’s been through a lot. And he seems to need a lot of space. Derek and Randi did too at that age.

Still do, in fact.

And they sure have their faults, especially Derek.

But Jeremiah’s different. He’s a quirky kid. A real odd-ball. It isn’t as if Fletch hasn’t tried to help him, but there’s not much you can do with a kid like that. It would take a lot more than buying him new clothes and teaching him how to hit a baseball. Or even taking him up to the cabin in the Catskills for a weekend to teach him how to hunt and fish.

Fletch pushes the door open, bracing himself for whatever he’s going to find on the other side. He imagines the boy lying on his bed sulking, or even smoking cigarettes or dope. What he doesn’t expect to find is an empty room.

“Jeremiah?”

Puzzled, Fletch looks around. He hasn’t really been inside the former guest room since his nephew moved in. It certainly is lived-in. Clothes and books are strewn over the unmade bed, the bureau, the chair. The computer is turned on; a dragon screen saver glowing formidably. There are empty soda cans and food wrappers on the desk and floor. Sharon’s going to have a fit when she sees this, Fletch thinks. The housekeeper doesn’t come until Monday. This kid’s an even bigger slob than Derek ever was.

And he’s not here.

Where the hell did he go?

He steps back out into the hall.

The door to the master bedroom opens. Sharon peers out. Her head is wrapped in a towel, turban-style, and she’s wearing a terry cloth robe.

“What’s going on? More reporters banging on the door downstairs?” she asks.

He shakes his head.

It’s been happening all morning. Fletch has answered the door and given every one of them a terse “No comment.” Thank God their phone number is unlisted. So far, no reporters have managed to track down the number, but he figures it’s only a matter of time before they do.

“Have you seen Jeremiah?” Fletch asks her.

“He was in his room a few minutes ago when I went in to take a shower. Why?”

“Well, he’s not there now.”

Fletch exchanges a long glance with his wife.

Then he says, “He wouldn’t run away, Sharon.”

“Of course he would,” she shoots back. “That detective scared the shit out of him.”

“Well, he’ll be back.”

“Don’t be so sure, Fletch.”

“Oh, come on, Sharon. Where’s he going to go?”

“As far away from Townsend Heights as he can get—
if
he’s guilty. And if he’s not . . .”

Fletch waits for her to finish.

She merely shrugs and goes back into the master bedroom, closing the door behind her.

“B
ut what if he had something to do with Rachel’s murder?” Karen asks Tom, pacing across the living room. She steps around the gently rocking baby swing, where Taylor is snoozing, her little head tilted sideways in what looks like an uncomfortable position. Karen decides against trying to straighten her head, not wanting to wake her.

“If you really think he did, then go ahead. Tell the cops,” Tom says with a shrug. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea to involve yourself in this by making a big deal out of something that was innocent in all likelihood. So the kid next door was in the storage shed with the door closed. So what?”

“He went off into the woods carrying something, Tom,” Karen reminds him, going back to sit beside him on the couch. Maybe she shouldn’t have woken him up to ask what he thought. She should have known that a level-headed accountant would think she is reading too much into what she has seen.

Besides, Tom has such a
thing
about them keeping to themselves as much as possible. She figures it stems from his New England background—the old Yankee privacy ethic. The last thing he would want to do is have his wife admit to spying on the neighbors, even if that wasn’t exactly what Karen had been doing.

Well, what were you doing?
she demands of herself.
You stepped back from the window so he wouldn’t see you watching him.

Yes, but,
she
isn’t exactly the type to go around poking her nose into things that don’t concern her, either. After all, she grew up in the city, where people mind their own business with a vengeance. Live and let live, right?

Right.

So why does she suddenly feel compelled to keep track of the neighbors’ nephew’s comings and goings—to report him to the authorities, even. Is she just paranoid?

Maybe.

Or maybe she should have just trusted her instincts and gone ahead and called the cops without consulting Tom.