When Secrets Die (36 page)

“We talked to the husband. He is employed as a mortgage portfolio analyst, and at best is home three weekends out of the month. He says there are no problems in the marriage.”

Someone in the back of the room laughed cynically.

“Mr. Burton says that he and Amaryllis had three children, total, none living. The first two died of SIDS as infants—one at two months, one at five. Both girls. Their third child, a male, lived to the age of eight, but was sick off and on most of his childhood. Mr. Burton said that doctors thought the boy had some kind of rare and congenital liver defect. Mr. Burton said that he got a vasectomy after the birth of the third child, much against his wife's wishes. She has reportedly never forgiven him, and has several times looked into adoption and foster care, but has always been turned down.”

“For once the system worked,” Janine Russell said softly.

Dr. Tundridge gave her a look, and I thought for a moment that he was going to shush her. But the look she gave him across the table made him change his mind. I realized I was holding my breath. McKay should have given me one of those deputies.

McKay was still talking. “Deputy Sheriff Krupp says that the local police had a call three hours ago from a Janine Russell, wife of Charlie Russell, a social worker with the Department of Child Protective Services in Lexington, Kentucky. Mr. Russell and his wife arrived in Gatlinburg early this morning, rented a hotel room, and split up. His wife went shopping, and Mr. Russell went to check on Blaine Marsden, who was reportedly at the home of Amaryllis Burton. Mr. Russell was working unofficially on information provided to him by one of his charges. One of Blaine Marsden's friends from school called Mr. Russell, who is her social worker, and said that her friend Blaine had called for help, and that she was staying at the home of Amaryllis Burton. It was unclear whether or not she was there against her will. Mr. Russell went to the Burton home this morning to check the situation out, and has not returned. We had an agent do one drive-by in front of the house. Lights are on, someone is home. Mr. Russell drove a silver Nissan, and that car is nowhere in sight. The local police and deputies have had an APB out, but so far, there's been no sign of Mr. Russell or his car. His wife is extremely concerned and says there is no way he would not have called her by now. He does not answer his cell phone.

“We have reason to believe that Ms. Burton is holding Blaine Marsden in order to sell her blood.”

There was a murmur in the room, but McKay held up a hand.

“I know, I know. But Blaine Marsden is the half-sister of Ned Marsden, who was a patient of the clinic where Ms. Burton worked. The boy's blood had unusual genetic materials that were patented for over four million dollars by the doctor who employed Ms. Burton.”

Someone muttered something, but I did not look up. I did not want to see them glaring at each other across the conference table.

Some of McKay's people were whispering. McKay kept talking.

“This doctor, Theodore Tundridge, received an e-mail offering to sell him blood that contained the same genetic material for research purposes. Doctor Tundridge did retrieve this blood sample, and had done so before we caught up with him. We have established that the offer was not some kind of hoax, and Dr. Tundridge is cooperating fully with this investigation.”

And that lets you off the hook
, I thought, giving him a look.

“The theory,” McKay said, “is that the blood sample was left by Amaryllis Burton, who is assuming that Blaine Marsden's blood will contain the same material as her half-brother's. We think that's why she's holding the girl.”

The tapping noises again. McKay probably had a diagram he was pointing to—
X
's and
O
's, like football strategy. Their plan was simple. The FBI would surround the house, one of the agents would ring the doorbell, and they'd swarm, heavily armed and ready for anything. They would take Amaryllis Burton by surprise to avoid any kind of a hostage standoff. They were set to leave in twenty minutes. Were there any questions?

“I've got a question,” Janine Russell said.

I turned the cell phone off.

Russell was looking at the doctor. She was small and slender, hair severe in a French knot. “What made you accuse this woman here of Munchausen by proxy? Just what kind of evidence did you have? Because from what I know, and I know a lot, you don't have a shred of proof.”

“Who exactly are you, anyway?” Tundridge said.

Janine Russell leaned across the table. “You know exactly who I am—you heard the man in there. I'm Charlie Russell's wife. And I happen to know that Emma Marsden here isn't the only person you've made accusations against. And what I want to know is why.”

“That kind of information is confidential. And frankly, I don't care what you want.”

Syd Tundridge looked at her husband. “Well, I want to know, Ted. Do you really have anything on Emma Marsden?”

“Would you all please not talk about me like I'm not in the room? I'm right here at the table.”

Mr. French held up a hand. “I'll tell you exactly what evidence we have. We have the evidence fed to us by Amaryllis Burton. Who told us, Ms. Marsden, that you had had two children who'd died of SIDS, and that you were using your son's illness to try and get the boy's father to marry you. She told us that you had confided in her. That you'd told everyone you and Mr. Roubideaux were married to pressure him into actually marrying you.”

Emma opened her mouth, but Franklin patted her shoulder and told her just to listen.

“And then the video arrived in our office. Of you in the parking lot. And it seemed—”

“Don't go into that,” I said. “We get it. Basically, Amaryllis Burton accused Emma of what she herself was doing. Was Amaryllis involved in the other accusations?”

French looked at Tundridge.

“Was she?” I asked.

“He won't answer that,” Syd said flatly. “He's worried about lawsuits.”

“He'd better worry,” Emma said.

Janine squeezed her hand.

I went to the conference room door and opened it. Spoke to the deputy posted right outside. “Can we get some food brought in? Lots of carbohydrates, coffee, and maybe a few tranquilizers?”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-TWO

They brought us hamburgers and sandwiches from Virgil's Restaurant, including cardboard cartons of the best little skinny french fries I'd ever eaten. I made sure everyone had food in front of them before I picked up a can of Coke. Dr. Tundridge was opening a bottle of water, but he put it down and looked at Emma Marsden.

“For what it's worth, Ms. Marsden, I'm sorry.”

“Dr. Tundridge, you made four million dollars off my son, and then you accused me of killing him. Drink your water, eat your hamburger, and do not the fuck talk to me again.”

I had a chicken salad sandwich. I tried to concentrate on that. We were short catsup packets, so I ate my fries without. I was going to strangle McKay next time I saw him.

We all watched the clock on the wall. The sweep of the second hand was mesmerizing.

Two hours and five minutes after I turned off the cell phone, it rang. Everyone jumped, and I flipped it open.

“Joel?”

“We've got the wrong house,” Joel said.

“What?”

“It's the wrong house. Amaryllis Burton owns this house, but evidently she's rented it out to someone else. She's not here.”

“Shit,” I said. “Where are you?”

“Some place in Pigeon Forge. Venetian Way. I'll get back to you when I know something else. Got to go.”

I looked up at the faces around the table.

“They've got the wrong house,” I said.

Everybody started talking, but Janine Russell was the loudest.

“What's the name of the street they're on?” she asked me.

“Venetian Way.”

“That's not it. It was Country Place. Country Place Way. Charlie asked me to look it up on MapQuest for him. It was in Sevierville, not Pigeon Forge.”

Syd Tundridge shook her head. “No, Amaryllis told me her house was in Pigeon Forge.”

Janine raised her voice. “Charlie told me he was going to Country Place.”

I held up a hand. “Quiet, for God's sake. Look, the house Amaryllis Burton owns is in Pigeon Forge, but it's been rented out. She's not there. She must be at that Country Place Way.” I looked at Janine. “Do you by any chance—”

“Let me think, let me think. Yeah, yeah. Twenty-seven twenty.”

I picked up the phone. Joel didn't answer.

Janine stood up. “I'm out of here.”

“Oh, no, you don't,” I said.

“Oh, yes, I do. My husband has been gone all day. Something is really wrong with him, and don't ask me how I know, I just know. You go on ahead and call the FBI, but I'm going there, and I know the way.”

“I'm going with you,” Emma said.

“I'll go.” Tundridge stood up. “I can reason with Amaryllis. She … respects me.”

Syd rolled her eyes. “He's right, though. She'll listen to him.”

“Nobody's going,”
I said. But I was wrong. We all went. Even the dogs.

Amaryllis lived in a subdivision that had the river on one side, and the mountains on the other. Some of the houses had big lots and great views, and the ones on the periphery backed up to farmland. Some of the homes already had Christmas lights. Definitely a local thing.

There were streetlights, but we were a ways out of the city, and the darkness seemed heavy. At the very end of the subdivision was a small horseshoe of houses with tiny yards and half driveways. Amaryllis Burton's house was on the far corner. Her turquoise Nova was in the driveway.

The FBI was on the way, but they were stuck in traffic behind all the RVs. We were supposed to sit tight and stay put. Instead, we'd come up with our own plan.

While I walked to the front door, Mr. French and Marcus Franklin were heading around to the back of the house. Emma and Janine had flattened themselves up against the side of the house near the street. There were no windows there. Syd stayed at the cars with the dogs—our FBI liaison. Dr. Tundridge walked just a step behind me, as we'd planned.

The house was a split foyer. There were no bedroom lights on, and the living room light was off, but there was a glow from the back. Probably the kitchen.

I looked up and down the street. Lots of lights on in most of the houses. People were home from work, having dinner. I could see the bluish flicker and glow of television screens.

Amaryllis Burton had a flowerpot on her front porch, sprouting dead petunias, but no welcome mat. Tundridge followed me up the five front steps and rang the doorbell. I could hear it echo through the house.

No one came. I looked around while I waited. There were two garage doors with no windows, and someone had run into the one on the right and left a big dent. There was no sign of Charlie Russell's silver Nissan. I looked at Tundridge. He took a breath and patted me on the shoulder.

“We'll be fine,” he said. The bedside manner.

The front door opened suddenly. There was no screen door, and Amaryllis Burton stood no more than six inches away. It was so weird to see her, after everything that I'd found out, that I caught my breath. She frowned when she saw us. I was a shock to her too.

“Dr. Tundridge?”

“Hello,” I said. “Lena Padget—you remember me, don't you? The lady detective?”

“Of course,” she said. She was holding a dish towel down by her side, and she fumbled with the top button of her denim jumper. “What are you doing here?”

“My dear Amaryllis, the sample you left me was perfect.” Tundridge sounded smooth. He was right. She more than respected him.

I smiled. “You've got what we want, Amaryllis. We've come to negotiate.”

For a minute I thought she was going to block me, but she changed her mind and moved back a little, and Tundridge and I went past her into a tiny foyer that had a staircase that led up to the living room and down toward the garage. I went up. The house seemed strangely quiet. No television. No music.

“Nice house,” I said. “Oh, I see you're working in the kitchen. You want to go there, or should we sit in the living room?”

I flicked the light switch on. That was the signal to everyone outside. Amaryllis Burton was in.

I sat down on the couch. “Well, Amaryllis. You have what Dr. Tundridge wants.”

Amaryllis sat down across from me in a recliner. “But why are you here?”

“Dr. Tundridge has talked to Emma Marsden, and they've worked out a deal.”

Tundridge sat in a rocking chair, facing Amaryllis. “Ms. Marsden has agreed to give me … access to her daughter in exchange for dropping the Munchausen's accusation.”

I crossed my legs. “I'm here representing Emma's interest, Amaryllis. We know you've got Blaine here with you. I wanted to go straight to the cops. Dr. Tundridge has convinced me that it would be better for everyone if we don't involve the police. It looks like we all have something to lose if things get official. You'll go to jail for kidnapping, Emma will have to deal with Child Protective Services, and Tundridge will get a shitload of bad publicity.”

Amaryllis Burton blinked. “Dr. Tundridge, you and
I
have a deal.”

He smiled at her. “So it was you, then, who sent me the e-mail and the sample?”

Amaryllis frowned. “I—I think you should both leave now.”

Dr. Tundridge looked gravely at Amaryllis. “You must know how important my research is. I'm willing to agree to terms, Amaryllis. But it will have to be a one-time thing. One payment, then we all go our separate ways.”

“I want half of what you got from the pharmaceutical company,” Amaryllis said. The pupils of her eyes looked huge. “Two million dollars.”