When Day Breaks (21 page)

E
than had forgotten his calculator when he was over the night before. Returning it provided Jason with a great excuse to see Nell again. He stood with the electronic device in hand as the front door opened. Nell looked surprised to see him.

“He forgot this,” said Jason.

Nell took the calculator from him. “He would have realized it was gone when he did his homework tonight.”

“Can I see him for a minute?” asked Jason.

“He’s at a friend’s house,” said Nell.

There was an awkward pause as each waited for the other to speak.

“Look, Nell. I was wondering if you’d like to go with me to the Cloisters tomorrow night for the event they’re having to kick off the opening of the Camelot Exhibit.”

“Oh, yeah. I read about that in the paper.” She looked skeptical. “But those tickets are kind of pricey, aren’t they?”

“Yes, a grand a ticket,” he said. “But Larry is spotting me the money because he feels so confident about where things are going. And I can write it off as either a charitable contribution or a business expense.”

“Business expense?” asked Nell. “I don’t get it.”

“Larry is already negotiating a contract with another publisher for a book on the Constance Young case.”

“And Jason Vaughan, the man who hated her guts, is writing it,” said Nell. “That should be good for lots of television interviews when it’s published.”

Jason ignored the remark. “Come on, Nell. You said yesterday that you’d love to see that exhibit. And it would be fun to go to something top-drawer again. It’s been too long.”

He could see she was tempted.

“I guess I could get somebody to stay with Ethan,” she said. “And I probably have something from the old days in the closet that I could wear.”

“Great,” said Jason. “And would you try to remember to have Ethan watch
KEY to America
tomorrow morning? I want him to see his dad as a winner instead of a loser.”

W
ashing her supper dishes in the tiny kitchen, Ursula’s hands shook. As she rinsed a plate, she knocked it against the faucet. The slippery porcelain slid from her grasp and shattered. Ursula cleaned up the mess on the worn linoleum floor, wondering how she was going to get through her knitting class tonight.

Maybe giving the class would be the best thing she could do right now. It might get her mind off what had happened at Constance’s service. Ursula hadn’t been able to erase the mental image of Constance’s killer looking down at her as she lay helpless on the floor of the funeral home.

Ursula had felt chilled and shaky all afternoon, one minute thinking she would go the police, the next thinking maybe she didn’t have to. If only she could remember what, if anything, she’d said as she came to from her fainting spell. Had she given herself away?

But what if she hadn’t really said anything that would lead the killer to suspect that she was a witness? Then she’d be all right after all, and going to the police would only complicate things. She would be forced to testify, and more than anything she didn’t want to do that.

Ursula wiped the kitchen counter, hung up the damp dish towel, and went into the living room. She turned on the TV to catch the evening news before it was time to leave for the needlecraft shop. Sitting on the old couch, Ursula took the piece of needlepoint she was working on from her sewing bag. She had already finished the third full stanza imprinted on the canvas.

There were only two lines left to fill in. Ursula began on those while keeping an eye on the television as well.

Eliza Blake was narrating the story about Constance Young’s funeral. Image after image of the people who had come to pay their respects flashed on the screen, including an image of a young man who Eliza reported had been arrested because he’d had the ivory unicorn that everyone had been looking for since Constance’s body had been found. Boyd Irons, Constance’s assistant.

Ursula recognized the name. Boyd Irons had been so nice, so courteous when he’d called to invite her to the service. Now, because he had the unicorn, the police were looking at him in connection with Constance’s death. Ursula knew better.

It was one thing not to come forward and let a killer get away with a murder that had already been committed. Ursula couldn’t alter the fact that Constance was dead, and it wasn’t her responsibility to bring the killer to justice. But knowing that a young man was being implicated in a murder he had nothing to do with and not coming forward to clear him was absolutely wrong. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if that nice young man’s life was ruined. She had to tell the police.

All the same, watching in terror as an image of the killer appeared on the television screen, Ursula wanted to sleep on her decision for one more night.

T
wo men stood outside on the New York City courthouse steps, shaking each other’s hand.

“Don’t think I don’t appreciate the fact that KEY News and you held sway here, Andrew,” said Boyd. “You got me before a judge faster than I’d ever have been able to if I’d hired the kind of lawyer I could afford—cheap and no clout whatsoever. And thanks for talking the judge into letting me out of there.”

“You’re welcome,” said the attorney. “We were lucky that the judge seemed to listen to my argument that if you’d really stolen the unicorn, you wouldn’t be dumb enough to drop it in front of the national media. Plus, it didn’t hurt that you have friends in high places, my man.”

Boyd looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“Eliza Blake and Lauren Adams both called me about you.”

Boyd tilted his head, baffled. “Wow. That does make me feel good. I wouldn’t have expected that.”

“KEY News takes care of its own, Boyd. But this thing isn’t over yet, not by a long shot. Even though you’ve been released on bond, you’re still looking at serious charges. Not only was the stolen unicorn found in your possession, it also connects you to the death of Constance Young. You better keep your nose clean between now and when we return to court.”

“I will, Andrew,” said Boyd. “I promise. I will.”

The attorney looked at his watch. “No point in going back to the office now. Can I give you a lift anywhere?”

“No thanks,” said Boyd, taking a deep breath of fresh air. “It’ll feel good to walk for a while, and I have lots to do.”

T
he minute the broadcast was off the air and the director had good-nighted the crew, Eliza picked up the telephone at the anchor desk and called home. Janie answered.

“Hi, Mommy,” she chirped.

“How’s my sweetheart?”

“Good. Mrs. Garcia made me tacos for dinner.”

“Oh, that sounds yummy. You love those.”

“Yes, I do,” said Janie. “When will you be home?”

“Well, I’m going to be just a little late, honey.”

“Why?”

“Because something is happening here that I have to work on.”

“But you were out last night, too, Mommy.”

“I know, Janie,” said Eliza as she thought of Mack somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean right now. “I’m sorry, but I shouldn’t be too long. You take your bath and have Mrs. Garcia read you your stories. When I get home, I’ll come right upstairs and give you a great big kiss.”

“But I’ll be asleep.”

“That’s all right. A kiss still counts when you’re asleep, doesn’t it?”

“I guess so.” Janie didn’t sound convinced.

Eliza hung up the phone, vowing that tomorrow night she would race right out of the studio the minute the broadcast finished. More and more she found herself wishing she were home after school and in the early evening to be with her daughter.

When Eliza arrived at her upstairs office, Margo Gonzalez was waiting for her, along with Annabelle and B.J.

“Thanks for coming in tonight, Margo,” said Eliza.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it in earlier,” said Margo. “I hate to have made you all stay here late on my account, but I had patients.”

“No problem,” said Eliza. “You’re doing us the favor. Why don’t we help ourselves to the dinner that Paige has arranged for us and get down to business.”

The group heaped food on their plastic plates and settled themselves in the chairs and on the sofa. Eliza filled Margo in on what had happened so far.

“So here’s what we need to figure out,” Eliza continued. “What kind of person kills for a single artifact, a single piece of jewelry?”

Margo swallowed the cheese and cracker she’d been eating as she listened to Eliza’s recap. “First of all, we shouldn’t forget that it looks like we have someone here who also killed a dog, as a dry run for the next day’s murder.”

“Well, what kind of person would kill an innocent animal?” asked Annabelle. “That’s just sick.”

“Only a monster would do something like that,” said B.J.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Margo asked. “People seem to be able to stomach the idea that people kill other people. I guess we’ve become almost desensitized to that reality. But the thought of an animal being deliberately killed horrifies us.”

“You’re right,” said Eliza.

“Well, the thing that comes immediately to my mind,” Margo continued, “is that there are three major personality traits in children that are said to be warning signs for the tendency to become a serial killer. One of them is cruelty to animals. Many otherwise-normal children can be cruel to animals, such as pulling off the legs of spiders or grasshoppers, but future serial killers often kill larger animals, like dogs and cats, frequently for their own solitary enjoyment rather than just to impress their peers.”

“So you think we might be dealing with a serial killer here?” Eliza asked skeptically.

“Not necessarily,” said Margo. “But at the very least I think we’re dealing with someone who has a warped sense of reality, someone who’s used to death. Someone who’s willing to commit unspeakable acts to get what they want, which, it would seem in this case, was making certain that electrocuting Constance Young was going to be successful. Choosing a Great Dane, a dog with approximately the same weight as Constance, was a very calculated, even—if you’ll forgive me—a very clever decision.”

“Aren’t most killers like that?” asked Annabelle.

“People kill for different reasons,” Margo replied. “And you might be surprised how many people who commit premeditated murders aren’t anywhere near as smart as our killer appears to be.”

“Not so smart that he didn’t realize that the dog could be traced back to him,” said Eliza.

“But smart enough to get to the animal shelter and kill the poor attendant who could help law enforcement find the dog’s killer,” said B.J., popping a grape into his mouth.

“Now that you bring it up, something has been troubling me about that,” said Eliza. “Do you think the killer came to the shelter knowing that there’d be sodium pentobarbital available in the back and planning to kill the attendant with it?”

“Good question,” said Margo.

“Well, that poor guy, Vinny, had been hit in the head, too, hadn’t he?” B.J. reminded them. “It looks like the killer might have come with something to knock the guy out but decided he wanted to finish the job with the euthanasia drug. Who knows if he made that decision before or after he got to the shelter?” B.J. sat back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “And while we’re at it, as the only male in the room, I have to ask: Why are we always calling the killer ‘he’? The killer could be a female, right?”

“Right,” said Margo.

Eliza wiped the corner of her mouth with a paper napkin. “I hate to bring this up, but I think we must consider something, as much as we don’t even want to think it.”

The others waited for her to continue.

“I think we can’t completely rule out Boyd.”

“But Boyd loves animals,” Annabelle protested. “He’s always taking care of Constance’s cat. In fact, he told me he offered to adopt her cat permanently when her sister didn’t want it. I can’t see Boyd killing that Great Dane. No way.”

“What about Constance’s sister?” offered B.J. “She didn’t look all that upset when she walked into the funeral home today. If you ask me, that one is already planning what she’s going to do with the money that must be coming to her from Constance’s estate.”

“Well, we can’t leave out Stuart Whitaker either,” Annabelle stated matter-of-factly. “I’ve read articles about that guy. He’s obsessed with the Middle Ages, collects medieval weapons, even had an antique torture rack in the basement of his office building, which he’s had converted to look like a dungeon. That guy is strange, and if his obsession with Constance was strong enough for him to take a priceless unicorn from a museum to please her, that obsession could turn to a murderous rage if she spurned him.”

“Look,” said B.J. “Constance made some real enemies during her stay here on planet Earth.” He turned to Annabelle. “Every time I turn around, I’m seeing the guy who wrote that book on television, talking about how she ruined his life. And there are people who work in this very building who couldn’t stand her and were thrilled when they heard she was leaving.”

“Don’t count Linus Nazareth in that number,” said Annabelle. “He was enraged that Constance had the gall to leave him and, worse yet, compete against him on another network.”

“She never got the chance to do that, did she?” Eliza noted.

The four of them sat in silence for a minute, all with their own thoughts, until Eliza spoke again.

“All right. For now let’s assume that Boyd has nothing to do with Constance’s death. Let’s assume that the unicorn was planted on him, that the killer wanted to throw suspicion on him and discredit him. Maybe Boyd had done something to anger the killer. Or the killer might even just have wanted to get rid of the unicorn because it would incriminate him or her. Whatever the case, we have someone out there who electrocuted a dog
and
Constance Young—and murdered an innocent guy who was just trying to do something good for poor, unwanted animals. If that’s not a monster, I don’t know what is.”