Tell Me You're Sorry (37 page)

“God, you're good,” Ryan remarked, opening the closet door.

Alison found Jenny Ballatore's work portfolio in the box. She looked over the design samples, and was impressed with her designs—if they were really hers.

“ ‘Caroline's Casuals, Oakland, California,' ” Ryan said, reading one of the labels.

Alison examined a blue plastic box, which was a little smaller than a hockey puck. She opened it. “Huh, a night guard,” she said. She found some notebooks, and opened one to a middle page. The penmanship was neat:

Alison closed the notebook. She opened another, and saw more writing, the same penmanship. She found a handful of other books, too, novels with Jenny's name written on the inside cover.

“Nothing in the pockets except some Kleenex and two peppermints, still in the wrapper,” Ryan announced. “Is Ellen Tracy a store someplace?”

Alison shook her head. “No, she's a designer.” She ducked out of the guest room and tried the bathroom next door. On one shelf in the medicine chest “Jenny” had stored some face cream, her lip balm, a toothbrush, and some other things. There were no prescription bottles, nothing with a name on it. Alison even went through the trash basket. Nothing.

Ryan hovered in the bathroom doorway. “Did you say she had a night guard in the box? You mean, one of those thingies people put in their mouth when they're sleeping?”

She nodded. “So they don't grind their teeth.”

“Well, if she slept here last night, why isn't it in here with her other stuff—or on the nightstand? Why is it stashed in a box of junk?”

Alison stared at him for a moment. “Because—oh, my God, because
it's not hers
,” she said, grabbing his arm. “It's the
real
Jenny Ballatore's—so are those books and journals, the portfolio and the clothes, even the coffee mug she was drinking out of this morning, I'll bet. I heard her on the phone when she was on the balcony. She said she wanted to wrap things up by tomorrow night. It's going to happen around two or three in the morning on Saturday. And this guy she's working with has to bring the
real
Jenny, because ‘they all have to go at the same time,' she said. It's just what you've been telling me about the whole family dying together. I think he must be bringing Jenny's cat with him, too.”

“Tomorrow night?” Ryan asked. He shook his head. “I thought we'd have more time. Usually she marries the guy first . . .”

“That's how they've been doing it,” Alison said, half-listening to him. “They've got the real Jenny Ballatore locked up somewhere while this woman assumes her identity. That's why she didn't want her picture taken. They must have the real Jenny holed up somewhere in the Midwest, because she said to the guy on the phone that he has two extra hours to get her here, because of the time difference.”

Ryan shook his head. “You're going too fast for me . . .”

“The idea is they bring the real Jenny here tomorrow night, and kill her along with the rest of us. The police will find the genuine article here, dead—along with her journals, books, and her night guard, and even her cat. And no one's the wiser.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Ryan said. “They want to kill you and your family
tomorrow night.
”

“That gives us twenty-four hours,” Alison said, patting his shoulder. She brushed past him out of the bathroom. “Come on upstairs with me. I want to check something out . . .”

She led him to the dining room. She studied her mother's silver pieces and the china displayed in the breakfront. “Whatshername was checking this out earlier. Something tells me she plans on leaving here with some souvenirs. Some of this stuff is really expensive, too. How much was your father supposed to have embezzled?”

“Three hundred and fifty thousand bucks,” Ryan replied. “But my friend Stephanie was pretty sure Lacee got his work password information and stole it.”

“Not Lacee, the woman pretending to be Lacee,” she corrected him.

“They never found the money.”

Alison slowly shook her head. “But that's not why they're doing this. It's not about the money and the expensive souvenirs they can pawn. Those are just perks. No, they're doing this for some other reason. It's got to be something else—something that involves our fathers and the other two.”

He shrugged. “All I could think of is the waitress disappearing that same summer they were all at the country club. But I talked to her sister, and she didn't think they had anything to do with it.”

Alison nodded. Ryan had already told her about that in front of the school. She didn't want to believe her sweet father could have been involved in something so sordid.

Ryan wandered over toward the cellaret. “Oh, my God . . .”

She turned toward him. He was pointing to the bottles on top of the wine cabinet. “Are those hers?”

“Yeah, the two in front are hers. She brought them with her last night. Or maybe they're the real Jenny's . . .”

“They're hers,” Ryan said with certainty. He picked up the liquor with the uniquely shaped bottle. “Keith was right. It looks just like Mrs. Butterworth's . . .”

Alison noticed the bottle wasn't quite full and the band around the top had been ripped. She'd watched “Jenny” take the unopened bottle out of the grocery bag last night. “She must have drunk some after I went to bed,” Alison said. “What is it?”

“Frangelico,” Ryan murmured. “She has a couple of shots after dinner every night. My sister told me.”

Alison heard a car pull up in front. “Oh, crap, she can't be home already . . .” She raced to the front window and looked outside. The red Hyundai was in the driveway. Her mouth open, she watched “Jenny” climb out of the car. “Damn it, you're right,” she whispered. “Somebody she's working with must have spotted you . . .”

“The balcony . . .” Ryan said.

“No, it's too late,” Alison said in a hushed voice. Grabbing his arm, she pulled Ryan into the living room and then pushed him down on the sofa. She kicked off her sandals and unbuttoned the top of her sleeveless blouse.

“Whoa, wait a minute,” Ryan said.

The front door lock clicked just as she climbed on top of him.

It took him a moment, but then he seemed to know exactly what she was going for, because he began to kiss her neck. “I can't let her get a good look at me,” he whispered, his hands caressing her back. “She's gonna spot the resemblance to my dad. I'll need to get out of here right away. I'm staying at the Grove Inn. Call me there tonight . . .”

“Okay,” she whispered. She heard the front door close.

Alison kissed him. He had soft lips and nice breath. For a brief moment, she almost forgot why she was on top of him like this.

But then she heard “Jenny” clear her throat. “Well, now, don't let me interrupt . . .”

“Oh, shit,” Ryan muttered.

Alison swiveled around and gaped at her. “Oh, my God . . .” She untangled herself from Ryan and climbed off the sofa. Past the hair in her eyes, she saw “Jenny” standing there with her hands on her hips, frowning at them.

Ryan's black T-shirt had ridden up to his chest—so most of his stomach was showing. He put a hand in front of his face. “Oh, man, busted,” he muttered. He kept his hand up in front of his face as he hurried past her toward the door. He was a good actor. He looked like he was really embarrassed or ashamed. “See ya, Ali!” he called, running out the door. He shut it behind him.

“I didn't think you'd be home,” Alison said, buttoning up her blouse. All the while, her heart raced.

“Jenny” was shaking her head at her. She let out a surprised little laugh. “Who was that?”

“The guy I told you about—Shane.” She pushed the hair back from her face. “Are you going to say anything to my dad?”

The woman seemed to mull it over. Then she cracked a tiny smile. “No. Your secret's safe with me. We're friends, remember?”

Alison nodded. “Friends,” she echoed.

She put on her sandals, and then went over to the mirror and checked her reflection. She started for the door.

“Where are you headed?” the woman asked. “Are you going to chase after him?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “No, Jenny. I have to get back to school. I have chem lab in an hour.”

“Nice way to spend your break,” she replied.

Alison didn't say anything. She just slipped out the front door.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SIX

 

R
yan wasn't sure how to get back to the hotel from here. Walking along the roadside, he glanced back at Alison Metcalf's house, a half a block away. He hoped Alison would be all right. He figured the sooner he got to the hotel, the sooner she could call him.

He was pretty sure the way back was the long, straight roadway up the steep hill in front of him. The climb looked like a lung-burner.

A thousand thoughts raced through his head. He couldn't believe just moments ago he had been in the same room with the woman who, in all likelihood, had been involved in the murder of his entire family. A part of him had wanted to grab her by the throat, force a confession out of her, and then choke her to death. But she had at least one accomplice out there. And the life of the real Jenny Ballatore, wherever she was, hung in the balance. If he called the police right now, what would happen to that woman?

He had a picture of the phony Jenny on his iPhone. He was pretty sure Alison was right about how these murderers had conducted their killing spree. But he still didn't know why.

He wished he could tell Stephanie everything they'd figured out so far. If only he could dial her number, hear her voice, and talk to her. But at this point, hoping she was still alive seemed pretty futile.

He had to think of Alison and her family. He liked her. In fact, he couldn't believe that just a couple of minutes ago, she'd been on top of him, kissing him. He hated leaving her with that woman. He kept reminding himself that nothing was going to happen until tomorrow night.

Ryan heard a door slam, and wondered if it had come from the Metcalfs'. He swiveled around. He couldn't see the house anymore. Was it Alison? Or was that woman coming after him?

He spotted a white Taurus cruising around a curve in the road.

“Shit,” he muttered, ducking into the bushes. Branches scratched his arms and burrs clung to his T-shirt, but he forged deeper into the woods. He had a feeling he'd already been spotted—a second time.

Ryan heard the tires screech on the pavement again. Through the trees, he could make out the Taurus, stopped on the road. He turned to go farther into the brush and almost ran into an old, rusty barbed-wire fence. The fence still looked pretty sturdy, and came up to his neck. There was no way he could jump it without getting all cut up.

An incessant
ding, ding, ding
rang out. He realized it must have been the car, signaling a door was open, and the keys were left in the ignition.

Ryan started to move alongside the fence. He hoped to find an opening in it. But his foot caught on something, and he nearly tripped. He looked down and saw it was a section of a fallen branch about as long as a baseball bat—only twice as thick. It was covered with mud, moss, and worms, but he bent down and grabbed it anyway. He wasn't scared anymore.

He was enraged.

If this person chasing him was a cohort of that evil bitch who had killed his family, he refused to run.

Through the trees, Ryan saw the car's hazard lights blinking. Someone was moving toward the edge of the woods. He couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. But whoever it was, they suddenly became very still. He wondered if they had a gun.

“Ryan? Ryan, is that you?”

He dropped the branch, and closed his eyes. “Oh, thank God,” he whispered.

He recognized Stephanie's voice.

 

 

Stephanie hadn't expected him to get so emotional.

Ryan emerged from the woods, scratched up and dirty. Without saying a word, he threw his arms around her and started sobbing. As she patted his back, she couldn't help thinking that they'd only met that one time, and yet they'd developed this long-distance bond on the phone and through e-mails. It was strange to feel this important to someone once again.

She gently pulled away from him. “Come on, we can't afford to linger here.”

“Where the hell were you?” he asked, wiping his eyes. “Why didn't you call me? I was worried sick about you. I thought you were dead. Hell, everyone thinks you're dead . . .”

“I figured it was safer for me that way,” Stephanie said. She moved around the front of the Taurus to the driver's door. “Now, hurry, get in the car.”

The Taurus's motor churned as Stephanie drove up the steep hill. She kept checking her rearview mirror to make sure no one was following them. Ryan was strapped in the passenger seat. A breeze came through his open window, but his short, spiked blond hair hardly moved. She almost didn't recognize him when she'd spotted him in front of the Metcalfs' house about a half hour ago, though she really shouldn't have been surprised to find him in Seattle. She'd warned him—practically begged him—not to come here. So naturally, he was here.

He seemed a lot more surprised to see her.

“At five in the morning yesterday, I decided to sneak back home in a taxi and grab some things for this trip,” she explained, her eyes on the road ahead. “If I'd left the hotel about fifteen minutes earlier, they'd still be picking up pieces of me on Hilliard Street.”

Neither she nor the taxi driver, Steve, heard the blast. But about five blocks from her house, fire trucks and squad cars—with their sirens wailing and lights flashing—passed them on the street. Stephanie had Steve keep going to the start of her block, where the police were already setting up orange cones. Emergency flares hissed and glowed in the dim light of dawn. Her neighbors, dressed in robes and pajamas, were coming out of their homes.

As for her own home, flames consumed what was left of it.

“That's your house, isn't it?” the taxi driver asked.

“Could you—could you take me to the airport, please?” she managed to say.

“That was your place, wasn't it?” he asked again, turning the cab around.

She felt sick to her stomach, and started trembling. “Could you just drive, please?” she whispered. “Get us out of here . . .”

As they approached the airport, she explained to him that she was better off letting certain people think she was dead. Would he mind not saying anything to the police or anyone else for the next twenty-four hours? She would call and explain everything to him.

His eyes kept shifting back to her in the rearview mirror. Then he finally sighed. “All right, but you better call me.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Are—are you sure I can't pay you?”

“Positive. I don't have a fare, because I never picked anyone up.”

At the National Car Rental kiosk in the Portland Airport, she thanked God for that cabdriver. She ended up calling him a lot sooner than she thought she would.

With all of her crouching down and ducking in the back of the taxi, her cell phone must have slipped out of her pocket. She didn't notice it was missing until she stopped for gas in Olympia. From a pay phone, she called her number. The taxi driver, Steve McKinney, answered. He promised to FedEx the phone to her hotel in Seattle.

She figured it was there at the front desk at the DoubleTree, waiting for her now. Meanwhile, she hadn't been able to get her messages. And she couldn't for the life of her remember Ryan's cell phone number. She'd been able to look up his grandmother's number on Hill Street in Highland Park. She'd called it from the pay phone in the hotel lobby several times, hoping Ryan would answer. She kept getting his grandmother or the machine, and kept hanging up. She was probably driving his poor grandmother crazy.

This morning, after reading about the Beaverton couple who decided to toss a brick through her window, Stephanie figured out what must have happened. While she was at the hotel, the man who had been trying to kill her must have wired the house for detonation. Obviously, the place had been rigged to blow using some kind of motion sensor. The brick through her window had set it off.

Unfortunately, if she was able to figure out what had happened, so could these killers. If they saw the news item about the Beaverton couple, then they knew she was alive. The police probably now assumed she'd escaped the blast. Considering her reputation with them, they probably thought she'd caused it.

Except for four hours of sleep at the DoubleTree last night, Stephanie had spent nearly all of yesterday and this morning following Mark Metcalf. She'd caught him meeting up with his new girlfriend last night in front of the TV station, and she'd followed them here to the Metcalfs' house in West Seattle. It looked like the woman was already moving in.

“I even got some pictures of her with a disposable camera I bought at the hotel gift shop,” she told Ryan. “I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure she's the same woman who drugged my coffee at the Portland Airport.”

He nodded. “I got a picture of her, too, Stephanie. I e-mailed it to my grandmother. It's the same woman who married my father. There's no doubt about it. Alison and I—well, mostly Alison—we figured out how they're doing it . . .”

 

 

 

“I snuck in the guest room while she was in the shower,” Alison whispered to him over the phone. “I went through her purse. It's all Jenny Ballatore's stuff in there. The photo on the California driver's license might look like her at first glance, but if you actually stop and study it, you can see it's not the same woman. I took down the real Jenny's address . . .”

“Just a sec,” Ryan said into the hotel phone. He signaled to Stephanie, who was sitting over at the desk. They'd been eating Thai food takeout when Alison had called. “Paper and pencil?” he asked.

From the desk, she handed him the pad and pen, both with “The Grove Inn” printed on them.

“Thanks,” he said, and then into the phone, “Okay, go ahead.”

“She lives at 722 Bayview, Apartment 835, Emeryville, California 94608. The same address is on her checks, so I think it's up to date. She had her phone in the purse, too. I was hoping to find some of the real Jenny's friends' contact numbers for you guys, but this woman has it set up so you need a password.” Ryan heard her sigh on the other end of the line. “I tried looking for a second phone—you know, her own—or a wallet or something that might tell us who she really is. But she must have it hidden pretty damn well. I even tried under the mattress. Anyway, if I can sneak into her rental car tonight—”

“No, don't take any more chances,” Ryan said. “Don't push your luck.” He realized he was talking to her the way Stephanie talked to him. “Have you said anything to your dad yet?”

“Not yet. Ever since he got home, whatshername has been clinging to him like a leech. Besides, I'm not sure what to say to him. I mean, does your friend, Stephanie, have a theory about why all this is happening?”

“We're pretty sure it has something to do with the disappearance of the girl from the country club.”

“But I seriously don't think my dad could ever be involved in something so creepy and horrible. Besides, didn't the waitress's sister even say the guys couldn't have had anything to do with her disappearance?”

“Stephanie thinks she seems a little too sure about it,” Ryan explained. “She might be hiding something. Plus that photo you took of the fake Jenny, Stephanie thinks there's a resemblance to the newspaper photo of the missing girl. I have to agree. That's why I'm getting my friend to set up the Skype session with Mr. Jayne tomorrow morning . . .”

He'd called St. Paul's rectory, and got the priest to give him Mr. Jayne's number. Then he called Mr. Jayne and asked if he could have a friend come by his apartment tomorrow morning. He wanted to show Mr. Jayne something online. The old man was as grouchy and curt as ever, but he'd agreed to meet Ryan's friend at 10:30 in the morning.

What Ryan wanted to show Mr. Jayne was the photo Alison had taken of their houseguest. If Mr. Jayne recognized his daughter, then they'd have their answer.

It had been almost tougher to get Billy to agree to set up the Skype session for them. “I'm curious,” he'd said. “Remind me again why the hell you don't just go to the police?”

Ryan had to go over it with him once more: they'd have to persuade police from all these different jurisdictions to reopen the cases; except for photos of the woman now claiming to be Jenny Ballatore, they had no physical evidence that these deaths were connected; the only person who might explain a motive for the murders was Mark Metcalf, and he refused to even acknowledge that he knew the other three guys. “Plus we're pretty sure this woman has an accomplice. Maybe two,” Ryan had pointed out. “If the cops arrest her, what's going to happen to the real Jenny Ballatore?”

“The police will probably arrest
me
before they arrest this woman,” Stephanie had chimed in from across the hotel room. “They think I blew up my house. I have absolutely no credibility with them. They think I'm a nutcase.”

“Did you hear that?” Ryan had asked his friend on the phone.

“Yes. I think you're
both
nutcases,” Billy had replied. “And I must be nuts to go along with this. But I'll set up your Skype session for you . . .”

If Mr. Jayne didn't recognize the fake Jenny as his daughter or a friend of his daughter's, then they were back to square one. Ryan figured he and Stephanie would have to come up with a whole new theory to determine the motive for all these killings. And they'd have only a few hours to follow up on it.

“I want to be there when you're Skyping with this old guy,” Alison said. “You can keep me off camera. I just want to see how he reacts to the picture, and what he says. Then I'll talk to my dad, I promise. He has to be at the station during the day tomorrow. I can talk to him there—without that awful woman around. We'll still have time. They're not going to try anything until tomorrow night at the earliest. Worst-case scenario is if we haven't gotten anywhere, we call the police at six-thirty.”