Beautiful Maids All in a Row (22 page)

Henry Mooney was going to be a very tough nut to crack. I didn't think he'd give up Shepherd even under torture. A tempting thought, though. Shepherd had brought him back from the brink of hell, and Mooney would probably follow him there if asked. Not good, not good at all.

Just from looking at the man—his straight posture and stony face—I could tell he was a cop. We could sniff each other out. It was the eyes. We all had that shell-shocked, weary look from having seen it all.

His career with the NYPD was mediocre at best. No commendations or citations, just a lot of complaints and reprimands for racial profiling and excessive force. He'd tried and failed four times to make detective, and then there was the problem of an arrest for domestic abuse. The former Mrs. Mooney phoned 911 after her husband broke her nose and knocked out her teeth. He was kicked off the force a month later and received probation. The wife took the kids and moved away. Smart woman.

After he was fired, Mooney opened a P.I. firm. In the three months it operated he didn't solve a single case and overcharged his clients, resulting in one of them taking him to court. With no job and no wife, Mooney sunk deep into depression and cocaine addiction. Four years ago he was busted for trying to buy coke from an undercover officer. The judge ordered Mooney to go to rehab at one of Dr. Shepherd's clinics.

At the time Shepherd was more hands-on at his clinics, actually meeting with patients for sessions. Mooney was one said patient, and within three months he was apparently a different man, according to a friend of Mooney's we interviewed. It seems that Shepherd was so impressed with Mooney's progress that he gave him a job as head of security at the clinic in Queens, where Mooney worked for a year and a half. During that time Mooney married one of the nurses at the clinic. When
Live in the Now
hit it big, Shepherd chose Mooney to be his personal head of security, paying him close to $200,000 a year. He was with Shepherd six days a week, which explained his divorce a year ago. Mooney owed Shepherd his life, and would probably gladly give it for Shepherd. So what was a little lying about an alibi?

There had to be some way to trip him up, catch him in a lie. He was a former cop; he'd know our tricks and techniques for interrogation. I'd need to find some other tactic.

The telephone rang across the room as I contemplated that. I turned to the clock next to my head. One twenty-seven
A.M.
“About damn time,” I muttered. I picked it up on the third ring, tape recorder in hand. Too bad he didn't call my cell. We had a wiretap set up, but the recorder would have to do. “Hello?”

“Did you like the flowers?” a familiar voice asked on the other end.

“Hello, Jeremy.”

“Did you like them?” he asked again.

“I burnt them.”

“They cost me a lot of money, you know. Almost two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“What a waste. Though it's probably nothing but pocket change to you.”

“I've been blessed, what can I say?”

I rolled my eyes. “What
do
you want? Some of us are trying to sleep.”

“I called to congratulate you. You found me, and sooner than I thought. I
am
impressed.”

“I can't tell you what that means to me.”

“I should also congratulate you on making Diana betray me.”

“She didn't betray you,” I corrected, “
you
betrayed
her.
She loves you—God knows why—and you took advantage of that.”

“She told you about me. She betrayed me, any way you look at it. It won't happen again,” he assured me with a hint of anger under the surface.

“If I find out that you've hurt her in any way…” I said through gritted teeth.

“There are ways I can hurt her that leave no visible scars,” he said. I swear I could hear him smiling on the other end.

“This conversation's over,” I said. “Whatever you have to say to me can be said right before we arrest your ass for murder.”

“Don't hang up, Iris,” he commanded. “If you do, Diana will pay, and this time I won't be as gentle.”

“Then talk.”

“Were you surprised to find out who I was?”

“Not really. I saw one of your infomercials about a week ago. You seemed like a pompous ass then and you do now.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I saw that you didn't give a damn about helping people. You just want them to worship you.”

“You're wrong, Iris,” he said. “I want to help others lead happy, productive lives.”

“Tell that to the six people you killed.”

He was silent. “I don't want to talk about them. I want to talk about you and me.”

“There is no ‘you and me,' ” I said. “We are not in any way, shape, or form together. You are just a psychopath I'm putting in prison, nothing more.”

“We both know that's not true,” he said. “I'm more than just another criminal for you to catch. I'm your salvation, your redemption.”

“You are my
nothing,
” I hissed.

“Without me, Iris, you'd still be wandering around your empty house praying for death to come. I
saved
you.”

“You're nuts.”

He ignored me. “How does that make you feel? It must be a mix of relief and guilt. Relief that everyone, most likely your father included, whose approval was the crux of you joining the FBI, respects you again. But also guilt that five women had to die for you to be reborn. Am I right?”

I groaned. “Will you
please
can the Hannibal Lecter shit? It's old, tired, and clichéd. You have not silenced my lambs, asshole.”

“Haven't I? You look better than you have in years. You have color in your cheeks
again,
Iris. You haven't touched a drop of alcohol since you started, right? You're yourself again, all because of me.”

“After that
lovely
speech, can you really
not
think you're a pompous ass?” I asked with a scoff.

“If you need to insult me so you don't have to face the truth, go right ahead. It doesn't hurt my feelings.”

“Really? How about this? You're a sadistic fuck with serious mother issues who can only get a woman by bullying or force. And it will be my great pleasure to watch as they stick a needle in your arm at the execution.”

“Harsh, very harsh. And what was the point of that little outburst? To rile me up? Get me to rush over with a scalpel and ropes? I could come now if that's what you want. You might actually enjoy me if you give yourself a chance.”

“Putin has a better chance with me than you do.”

He chuckled. “I admire your spirit. I bet it would take hours for you to break.”

I sighed. “Look, stop the sex talk. You don't want to rape me, and you don't have the balls to try.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because I scare the shit out of you.”

“I could tie you up.”

I scoffed. “You could try, but I'm not like they were. I trained in hand-to-hand combat. I could kill you with my bare hands. So stop the idle threats.”

“They're not idle,” he said.

“Then bring it on, Jerry.”

Silence, then, “No, you're right. If I really wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't lay a finger on you. No, I'd come slowly behind Agent Hudson, or perhaps your friend Carol, and just blow them away. She still works at Grafton College, no?”

“I swear to fucking God if you touch either one of them, what your mother did to you will be a field day compared to what I'll do.”

“I am just making a point. I know where you're vulnerable, and you know where I am. It evens the odds.”

“You don't scare me.”

“Of course I do, as I should. You know I have the means and resources to get to them or you. Working with the indigent and criminal element has given me many connections. I could do it, and it would never be traced back to me. But we'd both know, wouldn't we?”

The anger I felt, the tension, and the heat all came out. Boiling point. “You are nothing but a weak, simpering coward. You come
here
and threaten me. I may be afraid of you, but you are
petrified
by me. You wouldn't be threatening me otherwise. You know I'm going to get you, and it scares the shit out of you. And it should. They're going to
love
you in prison. You'll be the belle of the fucking ball.”

“All you have now are four books, a child witness, and the word of an unstable woman, and tomorrow you won't even have that. My lawyer will tear you to shreds.”

“Hiding behind your lawyer.” I clucked my tongue. “Yeah, you're a big, brave man.”

“There is a difference between being scared and being stupid, Iris.”

“Oh, I know you're not stupid, Jerry. But scared is another story.”

“I'm not scared of you,” he insisted again.

“Then prove it.”

He didn't speak for a minute. I listened as he breathed into the phone like an obscene caller. “I'll see you tomorrow, Iris.”

“Can't wait.” I slammed down the receiver.

I quickly picked up the phone again to call the New York field office. They back-traced the call, and to no one's surprise it was from a prepaid cellphone. At least I had the recording. The very least.

I was getting to him. That thrilled me to no end. He was nervous. Scared enough to threaten me, to try to scare me off the case. He wouldn't actually do it, though. No way in hell. Just in case, I'd call the Grafton Sheriff's Department and have them keep an eye on Patrick and Carol. Better safe than sorry.

I clicked off the light on the desk and climbed back into bed, pulling the covers in close to my chin. I could finally get some rest. Took him long enough to call. I was starting to get worried there for a minute. Oh me of little faith.

The next day would be very interesting—I could feel it. A little breakfast, conversation with a mass murderer, maybe go see a Broadway show. I could hardly wait.

Interrogation rooms are designed to be uncomfortable. A nine-by-nine concrete square room with no windows, one door, a mirror taking up the length of one of the walls, and a table with two chairs damn well loosened the lips. Even the air in ours was miserable, in the low 60s to keep the suspects awake. Interrogations often lasted hours, but they all started out the same. The interrogator brought a suspect in, had him sit down, and then offered him something to drink. This made it seem like the suspect had been brought in for just a friendly chat. After a few minutes the interrogator returned, taking the seat directly across from the perp. It began gently with questions that the person expected, like his whereabouts at such and such time. Personal questions were thrown in too about school, kids, whatever. All this time the interrogator is looking to catch the suspect in a lie. Just one little bitty lie could topple the whole house of cards. Sometimes suspects didn't even have to open their mouths. A trained interrogator, like me, could spot a lie just by looking.

Head position, eyebrows, anything could tell a story. Hands especially. If their hand touched their chin it usually meant they were telling the truth, but if it went anywhere near their nose, they were lying through their teeth. We could thank Pinocchio for that one. Legs were important, too. If a man's legs were crossed, it meant he was lying, but laid out under the table he was telling the truth. Dr. Iris Ballard, human lie detector.

Diana's body was telling me she wouldn't know the truth if it bit her on the ass. Her chin was on her chest as she gazed down at our beige tile floor, her eyelids flapping like a hummingbird's wings. Her hands stayed on her lap, balled into tight fists. I was surprised she hadn't drawn blood. Under the chair, her feet were tapping away in a dance for one. She hit the trifecta.

I was the woman behind the mirror, watching Shepherd's cronies tell more lies than a three-year-old. The low-lighted room I was in sat between the two interrogation rooms, a one-way mirror on either side. To my left, behind door number one, was a terrified Diana, with super-lawyer Cyrus Beaton by her side. To my right was a surly Henry Mooney, who'd revoked his right to a lawyer mainly because he decided to invoke his right to remain silent. Luke hadn't been able to get a word out of him, just crossed arms and glares. Clarkson wasn't doing much better with Diana. With every question Beaton told her not to answer, and she obeyed.

It had been an hour and a half already, and I'd spent that time looking closely at one of the ugliest men I'd ever seen. Age had not been kind to Cyrus Beaton. He was in his late fifties, with jowls that moved like sacks of jelly each time he talked. His face was a road map of lines crisscrossing every which way. Roger was a stick compared to that man. Beaton's stomach pooched out and not even the $2,000 suit could hide that fact. And all that was left of his silver hair was a half ring from ear to ear, like Larry of the Three Stooges. I was sure his ugly exterior was punishment for keeping murderers on the streets.

“So he
was
with you the night of June third?” Clarkson asked, getting more than a little fed up with his witness.

Her eyes remained glued to the floor. “Yes,” Diana answered in her small voice.

“Then why did you tell Dr. Ballard he wasn't?”

“You don't have to answer that. Whatever you told
her,
” Beaton said with disdain, “is inadmissible.”

Cyrus Beaton didn't like me much. When the foursome walked into the office, Beaton beelined toward me like a fat bulldozer. He spent five minutes berating my tactics for getting Diana's confession. I was apparently unethical, cruel, and unlawful. According to him I'd blatantly coerced the statement out of her, and he was planning to lodge a formal complaint with the FBI if I ever spoke to her alone again. Then he went into a three-minute tirade about the taped confession, saying it was inadmissible. Apparently, Diana never consented to being recorded in the kitchen and since Luke wasn't in the room at the time, it would be my word against hers. For eight minutes I just calmly stood there, watching his jowls bounce up and down and nodding occasionally. I wasn't going to fight with him. That was our lawyer's job.

U.S. Attorney Abe Shaw, the lawyer assigned to the Woodsman case, had come up from D.C. that morning to observe the interviews and push through the search warrants. As we gave the bad doctor the third degree, the FBI was going through Shepherd's office, apartment, cabin, and the clinics he frequented the most. I'd never met Shaw before but his record was impeccable, as he had only lost 15 percent of the cases he'd tried. He reminded me very much of a young Sidney Poitier, with the same regal presence and calm demeanor. Throughout the interviews he'd stood silently watching with his hand on his chin, deep in thought. Cyrus Beaton was going to earn his money on this one.

“Beaton won't let her get a word in,” I said to Shaw.

“That's why he's there.”

Clarkson sighed. “So he was with you the entire time between June sixth through thirteenth?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“He never left you for a day or so?”

“She said no,” Beaton said.

“I'm asking
her,
” Clarkson said, not veiling his frustration.

I grabbed the microphone set up in front of each mirror that transmitted to an earpiece each of the men wore. That way they could be coached through the interrogation, like Clarkson needed at the moment. “Calm down, Clarkson,” I said. “He's trying to frustrate you so you'll end the interview. Take a deep breath and count to three.” On the other side of the mirror, I saw Clarkson close his eyes, draw a breath in, and count silently to three before he let it out. He opened his eyes again. “She wants to tell,” I said, “but she's scared. Remind her why she told the truth.”

“Miss Hall,” Clarkson said in his usual calm tone, “you're one of the only people who can account for Dr. Shepherd's whereabouts the nights these women were killed. I know you love him, but if he did commit these crimes, he needs to be in prison. You're protecting a rapist and a murderer. And if we find out you're lying to us you can be sent to prison as well. Lying to a federal official is a crime. I know you told Dr. Ballard the truth yesterday, and I know the reason,” he said, eyeing Beaton, “you've decided to come in and lie for him. You were strong enough to tell the truth before; do it again today. We can protect you. We
want
to protect you. Please let us.”

Diana's expression didn't change; she just stared down at the floor, wringing her hands. “I'm telling the truth,” she said. “He was with me those days like I said. I only told Dr. Ballard what she wanted to hear so she'd put those pictures away and leave me alone. He was with me. He didn't kill those women.”

Beaton patted his client's hand. “She's told you all she knows. Now either charge her or this interview is over.” Beaton pushed his chair back from the table and touched Diana's arm, signaling for her to rise. He picked up his briefcase from the floor before leading Diana out of the room.

Clarkson closed his eyes and sighed. “Sorry.”

“It's okay. I didn't expect her to jump up and say, ‘He did it.' I don't think anyone could have gotten her to tell the truth now.” I bit my lower lip. “Go grab some coffee, then bring Shepherd in. Agent Hudson will join you when he's done.”

“Okay.” Clarkson removed his earpiece and set it on the table. I switched off the microphone and recording machine before rejoining Shaw on the other side of the room, looking into Interrogation Two. On the other side of the mirror, Luke leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head and long legs out, one ankle on top of the other. Mooney sat like a statue across the table glaring and scowling at Luke, arms folded in front of him on the table, looking anything but relaxed.

“I think they're in the middle of a staring contest,” Shaw said. “Neither has blinked for two minutes.”

Time to end the most boring pissing contest in history. I grabbed the microphone on the wall, switching it on. “Clarkson just finished with Diana. She recanted. If you need help, clear your throat.” Luke cleared his throat but didn't move or take his eyes off Mooney. It was prisoner's dilemma time. “Chances are he thinks Diana is a pea-brained airhead,” I told him. “He doesn't like her and probably thinks the worst of her. I'll send someone in to whisper in your ear. Pretend they just told you Diana gave Shepherd up.” I clicked off the microphone before walking to the door. I poked my head into the hallway as a young woman in a pale blue suit walked by.

“Hey,” I said. She stopped. “I need you to go into Interrogation Two and whisper something to the agent in there. Just play along with him, okay?”

The woman nodded before entering the room. I shut the door and scurried back to the mirror. The woman stood next to Luke, whispering into his ear. He nodded dutifully. “Thank you,” Luke said to the woman.

She left as quickly as she came. Luke sat up straight again in his chair, pulling it back under the table, all with a small smile on his face. He folded his arms on the table, mimicking Mooney. Mooney's expression hadn't changed. “Henry,” Luke said in a friendly tone, “I'm going to offer you a one-time, last-chance deal. Tell us what you know or go to jail.” Luke's feet began to tap under his chair.
Shit.

“Luke, stop moving your feet,” I instructed.

Luke's feet stopped twitching. “No?” he asked Mooney. “That's okay. We really don't need it. Diana spilled her guts again. Shepherd's being arrested as I speak,” he said with a smile. “In about five minutes, when we get the okay from the U.S. attorney, you'll be arrested and charged as an accomplice. Now we both know what happens to ex-cops in prison. It isn't pretty. But if you talk to me now, we can probably work out a deal. What do you say?”

Mooney leaned forward. “Charge me or I'm leaving.”

Bluff called. Luke sat back in his chair, literally swallowing his pride. “You're free to go,” he choked out.

Mooney pushed his chair out and walked out of the room without a word or glance. Luke closed his eyes and shook his head. Neither of us took defeat well. After a few seconds to calm himself, he stood from the table and walked out. A second later he stepped into our room, looking more than a little disappointed.

“Good try,” I said.

“Have they found anything in the apartment?” Luke asked.

“We haven't heard back from the teams yet,” I said. “But we both know he wouldn't leave anything incriminating just lying around.”

“Maybe he asked Mooney to hold on to some things,” Luke said. “Can we get a search warrant for his place?”

“Based on what?” Shaw asked. “A hunch?”

“What about Richmond? Have we heard anything from them?”

“Nobody at the hotels remembers seeing him. A few maybes, but nothing conclusive. And there is no way in hell Beaton is going to let him say so much as ‘boo' to us today.”

“Abe, how bad is it?” Luke asked.

“A pillar of the community, no physical evidence, and people who will swear he was with them. I had to fight to get the search warrants.”

“We have the books,” I countered, “we have an ID, we have Diana's taped confession, the gun used to kill the ranger is the same model registered to Shepherd, he has access to thiopental sodium, and we have the phone calls to me. I know it's circumstantial, but…”

“All of that can be easily explained away,” Shaw said. “Thousands of people have a book signed by him, one of our own agents included.” Luke looked away. “A five-year-old made the ID. We haven't found the gun, and even if we did, there are no bullets for a ballistics test since he dug them out of McIntyre. Cyrus Beaton will never let Diana's statement be heard in open court. And as to the alleged calls made to you…”

“
Alleged?
You think I made it up? I have a tape.”

“The voice print didn't match, and you couldn't even hear him half the time. The fact of the matter is you can't prove it was Shepherd; you can't even prove it was the Woodsman.”

“But I recognized his voice!”

“And when you get up on the stand Beaton will tear you to shreds. He'll invent some story about a vendetta, and it'll come down to your word against Shepherd's.”

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered under my breath. “But you believe me?”

“Yes,” Shaw answered. “But it's not what we know, it's what we can prove.”

Luke rubbed his eyes. “I need some coffee.”

“I'll come with you,” I said.

“Well, I'm thoroughly depressed now,” I said halfway down the hall. “We have less than before we started. How the hell does that happen?”

“Money and slick lawyers.”

We rounded the corner into the waiting area. Four gray-cushioned chairs arranged two-by-two sat in the middle of the room with BNN playing above. Diana, in her usual pose, sat in the chair facing us, so deep into herself it would have taken a backhoe to dig her out. God knew what happened after we left, but I was sure it wasn't pretty. Despite myself, I felt sorry for her. And guilty. Very, very guilty. So much so I couldn't look at her a moment more.

Mooney sat diagonal to her with his back to us. Luke and I continued past the dastardly duo to the vending machines, which stood directly across from the chairs. We turned our backs to the chairs, making sure not to look at them. I could still feel Mooney's burning gaze on the back of my head.

“They
had
to put the vending machines here,” I said quietly.

Luke put some change into the coffee machine. “Just ignore them.”

He wasn't the one with laser beams aimed at his head. “I'm going to use the ladies',” I whispered. “Be right back.”

I walked down the hallway, turning another corner, then stopped dead. Shepherd stood twenty feet away, in front of the men's room, beside a smiling brunette, signing a piece of paper with that stupid grin on his face. Jesus, he was a suspect in six killings and this airhead asked for his autograph. I quickened my pace down the hall. When I was close enough, they both gazed over at me. Shepherd grinned again. “Hello, Dr. Ballard,” he said in an amused tone.