You Only Die Twice (22 page)

I was babbling nonstop about the baby, so Fitzgerald eventually fled, giving me the chance to shower, wash my hair, and call everybody I knew with the news.

Babies, I thought. They do change people forever. How could anyone give hers up?

Still on an adrenaline high, there was no point trying to sleep. I walked Bitsy as threatening rain squalls blossomed like bruised flowers on the eastern horizon. I threw a raincoat in the car, relished a hot breakfast at the Villa Deli, then drove through increasingly windy streets as storm clouds crowded a darkening sky.

I called my mother, who didn't answer, then Frances Haehle, who annoyingly pretended we were strangers. Mr. Kagan was in court, she said stiffly, but would soon return. Preston Broussard was also unavailable, still
conferring with his attorney, which left me time to raid the baby department at Burdines Department Store.

I had no idea so many tiny garments were designed with little feet in them, even a miniature Florida Marlins uniform. Rooney Jr. also needed a rattle, a Pooh Bear shirt, and a hat with wee sunglasses to shield him from the South Florida rays.

Angel was in surprisingly good spirits when I swung by the hospital, bright and perky, despite all she'd been through. The woman was definitely a natural mother, and her rosy, dimpled baby even more beautiful than I remembered. Rooney snapped Polaroids and gave me a few to take with me.

 

Stockton's secretary located the tape and used her key card to settle me into a cubicle adjacent to the conference room. I watched the tape alone, in a comfortable chair, my pen, notebook, and a steaming cup of coffee in front of me.

The show's host referred to R. J. as “the millionaire department-store heir now facing execution after losing his final death row appeal.”

There were pictures, R. J. young and husky in a football uniform; a full-length shot of Kaithlin, with two other swimsuited teenage girls at the beach, mugging and laughing for the camera. Kaithlin gazed directly into the lens, her smile fresh and certain, as Amy Hastings hugged her neck. Any Seattle viewer who noted a resemblance between the long-dead murder victim and local socialite Shannon Broussard must have deemed it coincidental. After all, the dead woman's name was different and her photos, shot long ago, aired only briefly.

The segment's most riveting moments came during a video of the once-happy newlyweds: a beautiful couple, lighthearted in the joy of the moment, blissfully unaware of their future. Kaithlin fit perfectly into the arms of a much younger R. J., laughing as he whirled her around the dance floor at their wedding reception.

Several small children darted across the dance floor and Kaithlin greeted them tenderly, a graceful arm entwined around a little fellow's waist, hands fussing with a tiny girl's hair.

Her full-skirted designer gown pooled around her in creamy satin waves as she knelt among the exuberant children. Her features were obscured, but the children's were alight in response to her.

I replayed that moment again and again. How stupid I've been, I thought. I should have known.

 

The sky, so crystal clear and full of promise at dawn, was now gray and grimy and leaked a chill drizzle. The desolate weather fit the mood. Preston Broussard clutched a half-dozen white roses. Her favorite, he said. I already knew that. Introspective and brooding, he listened intently to my running commentary.

“Here's where I came onto the beach. The weather was perfect, the way it was first thing this morning. Two uniformed police officers were right down there.” I pointed as we slogged through damp sand.

“She surfaced only slightly south of where it happened.” I pointed again. “The man up in that window, the one who witnessed it, called the police when he spotted her. So did a woman, a tourist from New York, who was sunbathing with her little boy, Raymond. De
tective Rychek arrived, and the officers brought her up onto the sand. She wore an earring. That was all. They covered her with a yellow blanket. Her swimsuit top, a rose-red color, was retrieved by another swimmer farther south.” My eyes strayed to Marsh's window, and I gave a little halfhearted obligatory wave. “He spotted it too, called it in while we were standing here.

“He said later that he'd seen her arrive. He knew where she'd been staying because of the hotel logo on her beach towel. Did you know,” I said, turning to him, “that she registered under the name Morrigan?”

He smiled wistfully. “The detective mentioned it. She read stories about Celtic goddesses to the girls. The Morrigan, an Irish goddess of war, had the power to decide who died in battle. She could take the form of a bird, and when she hovered above them, warriors saw it as an omen of death.” He shrugged. “I assume that's where she picked up the name.”

I continued my narrative. “The man up there said she sat on the sand watching an intriguing cloud formation. As it began to break apart, she walked down to the water and dove in. She was swimming, when suddenly the killer was there. It was over very quickly.” I touched his arm.

Tears coursed down his cheeks. “That man up there, his name is Marsh?”

I nodded.

“How on earth could he simply watch and do nothing?”

“There's not much he could have done. He's disabled, in a wheelchair.” I didn't mention that, even if able-bodied, Marsh's instinctive reaction probably
would have been to reload his camera. “He watches the sea and the people near it, shooting pictures and videos. It's his hobby,” I said.

“Why didn't he shoot pictures of the killer?”

“He'd been photographing the clouds, the same unusual formation she was watching, and ran out of film. He said he couldn't reload fast enough.”

“Could he recognize the man?”

“Not from up there. A senior citizen who exercises here every day saw another swimmer near her. He assumed they were together.”

Broussard hunkered down at the surf's lacy edge, gently dropping the roses onto the outgoing tide, one at a time. The scene would have made a poignant picture, but I hadn't told the photo desk. The man deserved his moment of privacy.

We returned to his hotel and a corner booth in the bustling coffee shop. His attorney, he said, was seeking an emergency injunction to prohibit release of the body until a hearing, hopefully within twenty-four hours. The lawyer had already spoken with Myrna Lewis's attorney. The woman was passionate about keeping R. J. away from Kaithlin's corpse. The lawyer felt, however, that if R. J.'s claim was denied, she might be persuaded to drop hers.

“I'm stuck here for at least another twenty-four hours,” Broussard said grimly. “The girls can't understand why they're being kept home, but I can't risk their hearing the news from someone at school before I can break it to them myself. Reporters are calling the house. My family is under siege,” he said bitterly. “I hate Jordan for this. I could kill the man myself.”

“He's not getting any joy from it,” I said. “He's miserable, his own worst enemy.”

Broussard turned to me, eyes watery. “Do you think he had anything to do with her death?”

“I don't know.”

“Will we ever know, for sure? Will the police ever solve it?”

“That's hard to say,” I said truthfully. “The longer it takes, the less likely that will be. What often tips the scales is working to keep the case alive. Call, write, push for answers. Otherwise, it's too easy for the cops to shelve it and forget it. Most victims naively think it's wise to be patient, to let the professionals do their jobs. That's a huge mistake. Detectives become distracted, involved in other matters, refocused on new and easier cases. Especially here, where tourist officials prefer to see high-profile investigations like this one die quickly and quietly.”

“Thanks, Britt.” He sighed. “You don't know what a help it is to be able to talk to you. By the way.” He reached inside his jacket for an envelope. “Here's that photo you asked for. I hope it's what you want. My mother sent it Federal Express last night.” Eyes haunted, he stared longingly at it before handing it across the table.

He and Kaithlin had posed on a sofa, near a huge Christmas tree, the two little girls on their laps. A dog, a yellow Lab, sat at their feet, wearing silly reindeer antlers. A fire roared in the background.

“I wanted it to be our Christmas card this year, but Shannon didn't. She was very private…. You can print it now if you want to.” He shrugged hopelessly. “It
doesn't matter anymore. I want people who knew her here to see she was happy, that we were a family. Family meant everything to her. My parents are devastated. She got along better with them than I ever did.”

“She was a good mother, wasn't she?” I said, studying the faces in the photo.

“The best.” Warm memories filled his empty eyes.

“Her children were her life.”

“I thought so,” I said.

 

The storm had passed but the sky remained gloomy as I drove again to the Southwind Apartments. Myrna Lewis didn't answer. I left a note in her mailbox, but as I left the building she was getting off a bus a block away. I wasn't sure it was her at first. She was dressed up, in an outdated navy-blue suit over a starched white blouse with a little cameo pinned at the throat. Her iron-gray hair had frizzed in the dampness, and her limp was more pronounced.

Out of breath, she clung to the banister as we climbed the stairs to her apartment. She limped into her bedroom to change her shoes and hang up her jacket before rejoining me at her kitchen table.

“I went to see the lawyer,” she said, still breathing hard. “I'll do whatever I have to. Would you like something to drink?”

“Stay, sit,” I said, taking over. “I'll do it.”

“I don't have a lot of money,” she told me, as I put the kettle on and lit the burner, “but Reva left enough for Kaithlin's burial. Legal fees are expensive, but I won't give up,” she said grimly. “Reva was my friend. I saw what she went through. The worst grief on earth is
to lose a child. It's even worse when it's sudden and violent and could have been prevented. Worse yet when you have no body to bury. Every time an unidentified skeleton was found in the swamp or out in the woods somewhere, she swore it was her Kaithlin. That's why I have to do this. She would never rest in peace if R. J. was allowed to steal Kaithlin again.”

“Kaithlin's second husband wants her too,” I said flatly. “I saw him today.”

“From what I hear,” she said wistfully, “he sounds like a decent man, like a real husband. I'd love to see a picture of Kaithlin's little girls, Reva's granddaughters.”

“Here! He gave me this today.” I removed the envelope from my bag and took out the photo. “Aren't they beautiful? Like Kaithlin at that age.” I gave it to her, then fetched her spectacles from the sideboard.

She stared at the happy faces for a long time. The kettle whistled and I went to find the cups, teabags, and spoons. When I returned, she had both hands to her face, weeping.

I set the steaming cups on the table, then stood patting her shoulder helplessly, looking down at the pink scalp through her thinning hair, tears in my own eyes.

“I'll have a copy made for you,” I promised.

“What are their names again?” she said, making little snuffling sounds.

“Caitlin and Devon,” I said, and handed her a tissue from my bag. As we talked and sipped tea, her eyes kept returning to the photo.

“They even had a dog,” she whispered.

“What I need to know,” I said, getting down to busi
ness, “is the date Kaithlin's son, her first child, was born.”

She lifted her eyes and blinked. “Why?”

“It's very important,” I said urgently. “When exactly was he born?”

Her brow creased. “I don't remember now. It was in the spring, I think, or maybe the fall. It was so many years ago. I remember, she was showing at Easter time,” she said vaguely, “or was it the feast of St. Stephen?”

“I need the precise date,” I coaxed. “Can you remember anyone else who might recall it, who was there at the time?”

She shook her head. “Reva didn't want anyone to know,” she said. “There was a friend of Reva's, a woman. She had tried to help with Kaithlin. But I don't recall her last name.”

She pursed her lips, frowning over her teacup.

“Her first name was Catherine. She worked at Jordan's. She was very kind, tried to help, but there was nothing—”

“Catherine?” I stared at her. “Kaithlin's supervisor at the store?”

She nodded. “Reva knew her. She came to the hospital to comfort Kaithlin when the baby was born.” She frowned. “But I wouldn't know where to find her now.”

My hands shook as I put down my cup. “I do,” I said.

 

I called her office from my car. The sun had reemerged and the air was clear and bright again.

She wasn't in, the receptionist said.

“Are you sure?” I asked, impatient. Was she ducking me even at work? “When do you expect her?”

“Who's calling, please?”

Swell, I thought, if I blow my cover she'll never come to the phone. “Her daughter, Britt.”

“Her daughter?” The woman sounded puzzled. “Hi, Britt. Are you in town?”

“Yes, is there a problem?”

“Ms. Montero has been out sick all week. I don't know when she'll be in.”

“Sick?”

“I assumed you'd know.”

I mumbled something and hung up, the distant, neglectful, uncaring daughter. Was she really ill?

I remembered the name of the insurance agency Nelson operated and called him. “Have you spoken to my mom today?” I asked. “She's not in her office.”

“I know.” He cleared his throat. “I'm concerned about her.”

“What's wrong?”

“She's been down in the dumps lately. Depressed.”

“What's the problem?” I asked.