What Laurel Sees: a love story (A Redeeming Romance Mystery) (2 page)

Though Joe’s brother had mastered other celebrity voices, there had always been this obsession with Marilyn for Clay. Perhaps it was her allure, her mystique, or her pop culture stature. Joe didn’t get it entirely. It could’ve been that Clay related to that damaged, drifting soul of hers, the heavy-lidded wistfulness she embodied.

Joe had hoped Clay would eventually outgrow the fixation, but no. Gig after scrounged up gig, Clay would trot out that get-up. He’d stay out half the night, playing to a handful of lushes, few of whom would remember they were even there come morning.

Numbly, Joe stared. It was not as if Clay didn’t have his reasons for being the way he was. Joe knew those reasons all too well. Not that he could do anything about it now. Joe had been his brother’s keeper in so many ways, ever since being orphaned as children, and then well into their adult years. Borderline enabling was what it was.

A pang of remorse twisted through Joe. Almost always, he’d been there for Clay. Just not when Clay had needed him most.

two

J
oe drew his collar close around his neck. The state correctional facility for sexual offenders certainly was imposing against the gray morning sky. How many hundreds of convicted predators were confined within those walls? The sign identified the prison as a treatment center, suggesting that a person could be cured of those proclivities. Joe had his doubts.

As usual, he was early. Normally, he liked it that way. Just not today. Joe bit at his lower lip as he neared the security gate. Alternately, he checked the time, then the street. No sign of his brother, Clay.

Clay lived in a fantasy world, far from the adult realities Joe faced. Clay was talented enough, Joe allowed, if you went for that kind of act. But when the rent would come due or worse yet, the taxes, Joe was the one Clay called upon, expecting to be bailed out yet again.

One more month of support and he’d hit it big, Clay would promise. He’d get discovered. Somehow, Clay remained quite convinced that his moment in the sun would come, that in some brilliant stroke of serendipity he’d be in the right place at exactly the right time. Someone who was somebody in the entertainment world would turn his attentions Clay’s way.

Joe sighed. Attention was Clay’s drug of choice. There was something about attracting the spotlight that seemed to lift his brother far above the contradictions of his life. Attention made Clay feel special, somehow worthy of positive notice. It muted the voice of accusation that plagued him offstage, when he was forced to be himself. Attention had been Clay’s consolation following what they rarely spoke of, if ever—those events that had defined him for decades. Joe never blamed Clay for what had happened to him as a boy. But enough already. It was time to man up. Past time, in fact. 

Joe tried to force a swallow down his cotton-dry throat. Why hadn’t he brought a bottle of water? As a reporter, Joe was no stranger to these prison walls. Countless times, he’d been assigned to interview inmates, delving into the seamier side of life. That had been from the protected perch of the press. But this was not one of those occasions. This time it was up close. It was personal, disturbingly so. And despite the gulf between Joe and his brother, he wanted him there at his side.

Joe glanced sidelong. There was Lou. At least he had made it. Lou lumbered over, a press pass slapping against his barrel chest, his professional camera gear in tow.

Lou eyed Joe’s clean-shaven jaw, a wry grin curling. “So, you broke out a razor for the occasion.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Yeah, credibility and all.”

Lou turned around, then back to Joe. “No sign of your brother, huh?”

Joe scanned the street one last time, then motioned Lou toward the gate. “I don’t know why I bother.”

Inside, Joe emptied his pockets into a plastic tub and stepped through the metal detector. How he loathed this process.

A uniformed guard meticulously checked Lou’s equipment by hand.

An older guard directed Joe to stand on a mat. “Right there. Feet shoulder-width apart.”

Joe tightened his jaw. He fixed his gaze into the distance for the requisite pat down. No matter that this was routine. No matter that the search was conducted in a completely professional manner. Somehow, it was still violating.

Every single time.

Get it over with, already.

Why it was that security had to be so tight on visitors rankled Joe. Where had the presumption of innocence gone for the truly blameless, or at least those who had never been caught?

It was the felons who deserved this sort of treatment. The convicted criminals were inside, after all. And the last thing Joe would ever do was lift a finger to abet an escape, let alone do anything to risk incarceration himself. But then again, Joe knew that his discomfort with being searched ran much deeper than the indignities of prison security.

This was not the place for a man like Joe.

Though Joe put little effort into his appearance, it was what it was. Something about the combination of his tall frame and dark features had a tendency to capture unwanted attention. There were unnerving glances to deflect, each time he passed through this facility. Cat calls, even.

No wonder he’d ground his molars all night. But he had to put up with it, when coming to the prison was required of him, or on days such as this when he required it of himself.

Tom Zoring sat before a parole board, looking far more aged than his seventy-one years. Slump-shouldered and bald on top but for a few wiry white wisps, the former Father looked far less powerful than Joe had remembered, even since his last failed attempt at parole. Zoring had grown old in this prison. Gone was the trust of serving as a parochial school priest. Zoring had lost everything, including his will to fight the judgment against him.

As far as Joe was concerned, Zoring deserved what he’d gotten. In fact, he deserved far more, what with the way he’d repeatedly denied his guilt all these years.

Joe scanned the faces of the victims and their families populating the gallery. There were a few usuals he recognized. No reason to hold anyone’s gaze. One by one they stood, watery-eyed, to protest Zoring’s parole. Clearly, these people cared to be heard. They’d made it a priority to be there, despite the difficulty of facing their abuser.

Why Clay wouldn’t show to add his outrage at the prospect of Zoring’s parole was beyond Joe—especially this time around—given Zoring’s well-publicized confession following the previous board’s refusal to release him.

As the star witness for the prosecution, Clay’s testimony had been pivotal in Zoring’s conviction. A statement today—that could have tipped the scales on the side of caution once again. Five minutes with Clay could convince anyone to consider the long-range impact of the heinous crime perpetrated against him.

In Clay’s absence, Joe could argue against parole from arm’s length, as forcefully as he could. But speaking as the brother of a victim lacked the teeth of a victim speaking for himself.

Lou nudged Joe as Zoring was asked to rise.

They were giving him a final statement, as if the louse deserved one.

The defrocked priest cleared his throat. Gone were the dulcet tones of the orator, the austere bearing of a spiritual leader. Though there was no escaping his ability to articulate himself, this time, Zoring looked almost contrite.

If Joe hadn’t known the man better, he might have been taken in by it. Instead, he scanned the faces of the parole board. They had to be able to see through this performance.

Zoring barely raised his eyes to speak. “I deeply regret the unspeakable crimes I have committed, the sacred trust that I have broken, the many young lives I’ve damaged so irreparably.”

Unconvinced, Joe turned to Lou, seated beside him. “I’m sure.”

The foreman bristled. “Mr. Hardisty, with due respect, you’ve had your chance to speak.”

“Well, I’m not the victim, now, am I?” Joe couldn’t help it. “No, my brother Clay, he isn’t here to speak for himself. That’s because he’s so beyond screwed up by this sorry excuse for a man, much less a priest.”

“For the last time, Mr. Hardisty, I’ll ask you to hold your peace.”

It was all so sickening.  Joe shoved his steno pad at Lou and rose. There was no way he’d sit through this joke of a parole hearing any longer. Not when it was shaping up to become such a gross miscarriage of justice. Joe strode toward the exit, pointing at the foreman. “You let Zoring go, and I’m serious. The next kid he does is on your head.”

Laurel topped off a customer’s coffee at the counter of the downtown Blackberry Grille. She scooped up a nearby tip from a departed regular. Just a few quarters, but every bit helped. She stashed the coins into her uniform’s pocket. Given the flagging economy, it was surprising that people still ate out for breakfast, but Laurel was grateful that they did. What they left sure did help to supplement her meager base.

A bell at the door tingled as a young mother entered, her curly-headed toddler in tow. That was the way it should be. Children should be with their mothers. Laurel pulled a small, worn photograph from her pocket.

Grace.

Just the sight of that picture did wonders for Laurel’s flagging spirit. She filled her heart with the memories it evoked. There was the scent of Grace’s fresh washed hair. There was the sound of her musical laughter, the warmth of her unconditional embrace.

Without rival, Grace was the purest human love Laurel had ever known. When Frank’s affections had wandered, Grace had been the constant. She’d stood with her mother as tall as any child could. Sensitive and sweet-spirited, she had weathered the divorce with a maturity beyond her years. Even when full custody had been awarded to her father, little Grace had borne it bravely.

No one else had believed in Laurel, no one but Grace. The trust in those clear blue eyes of hers had confirmed it. Grace was depending on her. So, Laurel would never stop fighting for a reversal.

Worry darted across Laurel’s expression. Grace had soldiered through the long decision-making process as well as could be hoped, but so much time had elapsed since. Years had passed since Grace had been taken from her arms. As reluctant as Laurel was to admit it, even to herself, it had become plain. Grace’s strength was waning. Cracks were making their way into a heart more fragile than Frank seemed to realize.

The Grille’s head waitress, Belle, brushed by Laurel. An immigrant from Kenya, the African lilt to Belle’s voice set off her inviting disposition. Belle loaded a tub of dirty dishes onto a cart near the kitchen. “Where you off to in your mind, now, my friend? I see that look.”

“Nowhere.” Laurel pocketed Grace’s picture, her reverie broken. “Nowhere I can actually go.”

“Not today. Maybe someday. Is that right?”

“Someday, Belle.” A soft smile crossed Laurel’s face. She had to have faith. Her someday would come. But the longer Frank and Shana had Grace to themselves, the harder it was to believe it.

Once again, the memory of the vision of Frank plagued Laurel. It wasn’t her fault that he’d cut her off when she tried to warn him in the wee hours that morning. He ran so hot and cold with her about these things. Maybe in the light of day he’d be more receptive if she called back, for Grace’s sake, if nothing else. A chill ran through her. Though she’d never burden Grace with what she’d seen, how would it impact Grace if that dream actually came true?

Shana Fischer led seven year-old Grace into the councilman’s downtown office suite lobby. She straightened the crisply ironed cloth covering a picnic basket in her arms. Everything about being in Frank’s building felt good to her—the elegant tones, the upscale appointments, the handsome office furnishings—all redone to her specifications.