The Other Daughter (36 page)

Now the police were canvassing the neighborhood, talking to taxi dispatch stations, monitoring the airport, and getting financial records from her bank. They figured they'd turn up something shortly. How long could one debutante hide?

David said uh-huh a lot. He didn't bother to mention his current destination. FBI agents were supposed to cooperate with local law enforcement, but that didn't preclude staying one step ahead of them.

They pulled into the parking lot of the Red Cross Center a little after three. Melanie had now been on the run for over two hours, plenty of time to get down to Dedham by taxi or train.

They found Ann Margaret inside the vast white blood-donation center, sitting in a tiny office doing paperwork. The desk looked makeshift, the plastic chairs utilitarian. Industrial metal bookcases and gray metal filing cabinets.

The woman fit the office. Short, sensible, gray hair capped closely in tight curls. Lined face carrying the permanent stamp of a southern sun. Trim, neat figure clad in nurses' whites. Though not large or imposing, Ann Margaret looked like the kind of woman you could trust to get the job done.

At their approach, she glanced up, frowned, then paled as they showed their credentials.

“What is it?” she asked sharply, as if part of her had been expecting bad news for quite some time. “What happened?”

“We'd like to ask you some questions about Melanie Stokes,” David said.

The lines of her face turned to confusion. Apparently the presence of FBI agents didn't surprise her, but FBI agents asking about Melanie did.

David motioned to two yellow plastic chairs. “May we?”

Ann Margaret was too well mannered to refuse, so he and Chenney took a seat.

“I don't understand what you need to know about Melanie,” Ann Margaret said, setting down her pen. “She's not even scheduled to work today.”

“She's volunteered here for a while?” David asked.

“Five years.” Ann Margaret frowned. “Is she all right? What's going on?”

“Do you know William Sheffield?”

“Yes, Melanie's ex-fiancé. Now, see here” — she leaned forward, her lips thinning into a firm line — “I want to know what is going on.”

“William Sheffield was found shot two hours ago. We have reason to believe that Melanie pulled the trigger.”

Ann Margaret was shaken. “No,” she whispered.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“But …but…” She couldn't seem to find her bearings. Her hands fluttered on her desk as if seeking anchor. “Is he dead?”

“Yes, ma'am. But we'll need you to keep that under your hat until we notify his family.”

“He doesn't have a family. He was an orphan too. It was one of the things he and Melanie had in common.”

“What do you know about their relationship?”

Ann Margaret still looked shell-shocked. “I don't …I mean. Melanie is more than just a volunteer, I'm her friend. I remember how happy she was when he first proposed.”

David waited patiently.

“Her father introduced the two of them, I believe. They dated six months, seemed happy. I know Melanie said once that William was a bit jealous that she'd been adopted by such a rich family and he hadn't. She didn't understand that. He'd become a doctor after all, lived a very good life. I guess it caused a rift between them. She hasn't really talked much about him since they broke up. I assumed the parting was mutual.”

“Did she ever allude that she wanted him back or felt injured?”

“Not at all. And even if — listen to me, young man.” Ann Margaret pulled herself up. “William and Melanie weren't a good match, but you don't kill someone over something like that. William was really a nice boy, very smart, a good anesthesiologist. And Melanie simply wouldn't hurt a fly. Plus, their breakup is ancient history. There must be some other explanation.”

“Did she talk to you about anything else going on in her life?”

“Well, I haven't really spoken to her for four or five days. She hasn't been feeling well. Problems with migraines…” Her voice trailed off. She seemed to realize that could be significant.

David waited, but Ann Margaret had obviously decided it would be best if she didn't say anything more.

“We really need to speak to Melanie,” David said evenly.

“I'm sure you do.”

“If you know where she is—”

“I don't know any such thing.”

“You're sure she hasn't contacted you?”

“I am her boss, Agent, not her mother.”

David said in a low, steely voice, “If we find out you're hiding a fugitive…”

But Ann Margaret remained unmoved. If she did know more, she simply wasn't saying.

David placed a business card on her desk. The blue FBI shield emblazoned on the card stared up at her as he and Chenney walked away.

As he was passing through the doorway, David suddenly turned.

“Ever hear the name Angela Johnson?”

He thought she flinched.

“No.”

“What about Annie?”

A muscle flickered in her cheek. “My name is Ann Margaret Dawson. That's all I go by, Agent — at least on a good day.”

“Of course.”

She smiled thinly. “Of course.”

David and Chenney walked out. “What do you think?” Chenney asked as they got into their car.

“I don't know yet.”

“She seemed to take the news rather hard.”

David tapped the steering wheel a few times, then started the engine. “I think she may be worth watching.”

“I don't know. Melanie Stokes is spooked and frightened. If you were spooked and frightened, would you really run to Dedham?”

“No, but if my name was really Ann Margaret Dawson, I wouldn't flinch at the mention of Angela Johnson.”

“Who's Angela Johnson?”

“Russell Lee Holmes's wife?”

Chenney's eyes got round. “You think…”

“Ann Margaret, Annie, Angela. Lots of Annes to be a coincidence.”

“And she's from Texas.”

“And she's about the right age.”

“Oh, my God,” Chenney said.

David just nodded and drove. He had a thousand things on his mind, but first and foremost he remained worried about Melanie.

Chenney didn't speak again until they were almost in Boston. “Shit,” he declared. “Riggs, we're male chauvinist pigs.”

“Probably.”

“Think for a moment. The Stokes family doesn't have motive to stir things up. We don't think O'Donnell has motive to stir things up. Melanie certainly doesn't, and you're determined to believe that Russell Lee Holmes is dead.”

“Yes, I definitely believe that.”

“So what about Russell Lee Holmes's
wife
? What about this Angela Johnson and everything she must know from back then?”

“Oh, God,” David said as the pieces started to fit. “We
are
male chauvinist pigs.”

“She'd probably know all about the details of the crime and life in the Stokes family.”

“That would explain the shrine in Melanie's room. If you were a woman and you gave up your daughter twenty years ago to protect her, to give her a better life, you'd have to wish—”

“That she'd remember. Or someday come looking for you.”

“Christ. First thing tomorrow morning—”

“Everything I can find on Angela Johnson—”

“Ann Margaret Dawson.”

“Got it.”

DAVID DIDN'T RETURN home until ten P.M. He felt a moment of apprehension standing in front of his apartment door. Melanie knew where he lived. Would she come here on her own, give him a second chance?

He unlocked his door and pushed it wide open. Moonlight cascaded over the dingy mess that passed for his private refuge, illuminating his old green couch and the dusty collection of trophies he never could bring himself to throw away.

No Melanie. Damn.

By eight P.M. the police had traced two ATM withdrawals to her checking account. Her bank reported her coming in late in the afternoon and withdrawing an even larger sum of cash. At this point she had a few thousand dollars on her. She could get pretty far on a few thousand dollars. David wished he knew where.

He limped into the kitchen and grabbed a bag of frozen peas. His back was a mess.

His career wasn't doing so great these days either.

The press was all over the shooting of William Sheffield. Reporters were already calling the Bureau's press relations agent, stating they knew two FBI agents had been present at the scene and they wanted to know the Bureau's involvement in the case. So far Lairmore had issued the generic “We are merely assisting local law enforcement in any way they see fit,” a party line nobody was buying.

It would be only a matter of time before someone found out about the investigation into Drs. William Sheffield and Harper Stokes. Then someone would place Larry Digger at the Stokes residence, connect the dots with his recent murder, and the story would gain real momentum. While the Bureau remained looking bad. Agents leaving a trail of unsolved homicides. The Feebies — always a day late and a dollar short. The potential for Bureau bashing was unlimited.

The Bureau had already had enough bad press in the nineties, Lairmore had informed Riggs and Chenney curtly after five o'clock. They'd better perform some damage control quick, or they would become the first agents in the history of the Bureau reduced to serving as meter maids.

David paced his living room. He jerked off his tie, shed his jacket. To hell with Lairmore, David couldn't stand not being able to put this case to bed.

Twenty-five years earlier Harper cut a deal with Russell Lee Holmes. Something happened to Meagan Stokes, and Harper wanted Russell Lee to take the fall. Harper gets a million dollars. Russell Lee's daughter gets a good home. Everyone lives happily ever after until one day Harper needs money again.

This time he comes up with scheme number two, slicing open healthy patients for profit. No harm, no foul, he must have thought. Piece of cake after disguising a murder.

But he didn't cover up all his tracks this time, and someone was after him now. Maybe he/she wanted vengeance for Meagan or maybe he/she wanted Melanie back or maybe he/she was simply sick to death of Harper Stokes. David sure as hell was. Killing one daughter. Adopting another and leading her on for twenty years, only to hand her over to the police on a silver platter. The man had to have ice water instead of blood in his veins.

The phone rang. David quickly snatched it up.

“Melanie?”

There was a pause. “David?”

Not Melanie, but his father. David was disappointed, and he sounded it. “Dad? Is everything all right? It's late.”

“Sorry. Didn't mean …Just couldn't get hold of you during the conventional times, you know. Did you get my messages? I've been wondering.”

His father sounded humbled and hurt. David grimaced.

“I'm fine,” he said. “Just …busy.”

“Work going well?” Bobby's voice picked up. “I got some new ideas for your gun.”

“My gun's fine, Dad. Uh, I'm doing some work with Detective Jax. He told me to give you his regards.”

“Oh, Jax. I like him. Good man. Pretty good shot, but you're better. Coming out to the range anytime soon?” Bobby asked eagerly. “I could meet you there.”

“I don't know. I got a pretty rough case now.”

“More of that doctor stuff?”

“Yeah.”

The call drifted to silence. David shifted restlessly, cold water trickling down his back. He should say something more.
Hey, Dad, how are the Red Sox doing? No, don't tell me. It'll just break both of our hearts
.

“So,” Bobby said presently. “Your brother is doing better. Sent his lead pitcher to the bench like I recommended. Brought up the rookie. Good kid, lots of potential. Got ten strikeouts his second game.”

“That's good.”

“I painted the house. Gray, dark blue trim. Not that different.”

“You should've told me, I would've helped.”

“No need, I have plenty of time. Business is kind of slow right now.”

Another edgy silence.

“How's your back?” Bobby blurted out.

“Fine,” David lied.

“Taking those pills the doctor talked about?”

“Nope, no need.” Lied even more.

“David,” Bobby said. “I'm your father. Can't you at least tell me what's going on?”

David hung his head, then stared at the big trophy in the back, the state championship, won on the day his father had hugged him so hard, he'd thought his ribs would break. He hurt. He hurt too much and it had nothing to do with solidifying vertebrae and spasming muscles. He'd failed his dad. That was the bottom line. He could get over many things, but he couldn't get over that.

He said weakly, “I'm uh …I'm just busy, Dad. A lot of work right now. I really should be going.”

“I see. Fraud?”

“Fraud. Homicide. I'm not doing so good at staying ahead of these guys.”

“You'll catch up.” His father sounded confident.

David squeezed his eyes shut and said tightly, “You don't know that. Christ, Dad, it's not like I traded in a brilliant pitching career for a brilliant law enforcement career. I'm in
healthcare fraud
. I read reports, not change the world. As a matter of fact, because of me some young woman had to shoot a man to save her life today. Now she's on the run, frightened and scared and God knows what, and
it's all my fault
!”

“You'll help her,” his father said.

“
Dammit
! Listen to me, Dad, just listen. I don't save lives, okay, or the world. I save dollars and cents. That's it. I spend most of the year reading hundreds of pounds of subpoenaed documents. I don't need a souped-up Beretta with radioactive sights.
I need Wite-Out
! Wite-Out!”

The phone line fell silent. David realized what he'd just said, how much he'd said. Oh, Christ. He tried to backpedal furiously, though he knew it was too late.

“I'm sorry. I'm just working too hard. I'm not getting enough sleep—”

“I don't understand your job,” his father said somberly. “I try, David, I do. But I'm not book-smart like you. I didn't go to college. I'm good with my hands and I'm good with guns and I'm good with a baseball. When you were doing that too, I could understand. Then you got a degree, I mean a real degree instead of going to college for ball, like we thought you would. You got into the academy. God almighty, I can't imagine ever being chosen for something like that. Now you analyze things, you take on doctors and hospitals and insurance companies, and those people aren't stupid.