Damaged (17 page)

Tuesday, May 8, 2:00 a.m.

H
er mind hovered between consciousness and sleep.

The second howl brought her straight out of bed.

“Alaska!”

She grabbed her robe and ran down the stairs, shrugging it over her pj’s.

Alaska howled again. He was in the kitchen.

Goose bumps shivered down Kate’s arms. She had only heard Alaska howl once before. That time he had been outside the kitchen door.

She ran into the kitchen. Alaska had scrambled onto the counter and was frantically pawing the window. Kate followed his gaze.

Someone was in the backyard.

She could just make out the hooded form, bent over the ragged garden in the back. The intruder was digging.

Fear prickled along her neck.

Was this Lisa MacAdam’s and Krissie Burns’s killer?

She needed to call the police.

“Be quiet, Alaska,” she hissed. She wanted the intruder
caught this time. So far, it seemed that he hadn’t heard Alaska’s unearthly howling.

She pulled the husky off the counter. A movement caught her eye.

Someone walked through the garden gate. It was a woman. Elderly, her back stooped, her white hair glowed in an unearthly halo around her head. She walked slowly, but purposefully, across Kate’s yard.

What was this woman doing? Couldn’t she see there was a killer fifty feet away from her?

The lady walked right by the kitchen porch.

Kate grabbed the mop and threw open the bolt on the kitchen door. She ran onto the porch, wincing as her toe struck an uneven board.

“Jesus!”

The elderly lady stopped in her tracks and shot her a shocked glance.

“Watch out!” Kate leaped down the stairs, holding the mop out in front of her. “There’s someone in my garden!” She gestured over her shoulder. “Quick! Come into the house. I’m going to call the police.”

As she spoke, she had the sensation she was still in the kitchen, watching a wild version of herself waving a mop and ranting. The elderly lady appeared completely unaffected by Kate’s panic.

Kate glanced over her shoulder. The killer remained by the garden. Unmoving.

She slowly lowered the mop. Alaska stood by her knees, his ears pricked defensively, a low growl building in his throat.

“My dear, I am very sorry to disturb you,” the elderly lady said. She glanced nervously at Alaska. “And I am sorry if my sister frightened you.”

“Your sister?” Kate echoed, stunned. That hooded shape in her garden was not a psychopathic killer, but an elderly lady?

The lady nodded. “Yes, that’s my sister.” Kate stared at the intruder. All she could see was her back. From the distance, and in the dark, she could have sworn it was a man, and a large one at that, under the hooded coat.

The lady continued, “We haven’t been introduced. My name is Enid Richardson. I live down the street with Muriel.”

Kate stared at her. The Richardson sisters. Here, in her yard. She hadn’t realized they were still living, let alone in the neighborhood.

Enid Richardson held out her hand. It was pale and translucent in the porch light, but there was a cordlike strength in the tendons. Kate shook it, praying that Enid Richardson wouldn’t remember her. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Richardson. My name is Kate…Lange.”

“Kate Lange?” Enid Richardson’s gaze swept over her. Her eyes lingered on Kate’s face. Kate shrank into the worn folds of her bathrobe. “I thought the eyes were familiar.” Enid smiled. “I remember you now. What dear little girls you and your sist—” She stopped abruptly. Sympathy welled in her eyes.

“Yes. Well.” Kate looked desperately around her. Her gaze fell on the hooded figure of Muriel Richardson. She said quickly, “Why does your sister keep coming to my yard, Mrs. Richardson?”

“It’s Miss Richardson,” she said. “But please call me Enid.” She smiled, then looked at Muriel’s kneeling form. “My sister has Alzheimer’s. She used to play at this house as a child. Now she gravitates back to it.” She sighed. “The older I get, the more I see how the mind returns to its childhood. In the case of my sister, her mind is so confused
she seeks comfort in simple things.” She gestured around her. “She likes to dig in the garden.”

Sensing that danger had passed, Alaska began sniffing the yard.

“Is your dog friendly?” Enid asked, stepping between Alaska and her sister. Kate quickly followed her to where Muriel Richardson knelt.

Alaska ignored them both. A patch of soggy leaves was proving to be of immense interest.

“Yes. He’s been good so far,” Kate said. She rubbed one foot over the other. The ground was freezing.

“Oh. Is he new?” Enid looked at him with renewed interest.

“I adopted him a few weeks ago.” Pride laced Kate’s voice. He was a beautiful, gentle giant. “His name is Alaska.”

“Did he live here with Margery Thompson?” Enid asked. “I think she had a dog that resembled him.”

Kate nodded. “Yes, he kept coming back to the house after she died, so I kept him.”

Enid pursed her lips. “I never understood why an old lady would get a young frisky dog like him. It didn’t seem fair.” She shrugged. “But I bet he was company.”

Kate smiled. “He is good company. He keeps me on my toes.” She thought of the shredded magazine she had found under the kitchen table this evening. “And he enjoys a good read.”

“Well, I’m sorry we interrupted your sleep, Kate.” Enid smiled apologetically. “We’ll be getting back to our beds.” She walked over to her sister and gently took her arm. “It’s time to go home, Mil.” Muriel let Enid pull her to her feet. She was tall, surprisingly tall for an elderly lady. Enid looked small and frail next to her.

“Muriel, this is Kate Lange,” Enid said. Muriel didn’t
look up. Her gaze was transfixed by a clump of wet earth she held in her hand. Very slowly, she mushed the icy soil between her fingers.

“Hello,” Kate said.

“I want a cup of dirt,” Muriel blurted loudly. She curled her fingers into her palm.

“Yes, dear.” Enid patted her arm. “I’ll make you some when I get home.” She led Muriel slowly toward the gate. “It was nice to meet you
again
, Kate.” She gave a little smile. “I am sorry we scared you.”

“No problem.” Kate smiled back. “I’m glad you found your sister.”

Enid paused at the gate. “I hope she doesn’t disturb your sleep again. I keep the doors locked, but sometimes Muriel remembers how to unlock them.”

“It’s okay.” Kate’s feet had turned numb. Six a.m. was getting closer and closer. “Nice to meet you.”

“Drop in for a cup of tea sometime, dear,” Enid said, leading Muriel out the gate.

“Thank you.” Kate watched the two ladies leave. The larger sister was being led carefully down the driveway. Despite their height differences, and the fact that Muriel’s mind was no longer whole, they walked in step, obviously used to being together and taking comfort from that fact.

Kate wondered if Imogen would have been taller than she. If they would have remained friends as they grew older. If they would have been companions in old age.

She turned and walked into her house. Her feet were like blocks of ice. She wished the numbness would extend to her heart. Because try as she might, she could never make the pain go away.

Tuesday, May 8, 1:00 p.m.

By lunch, Kate had eleven voice mails waiting to be heard. She’d been out of the office all morning, arguing a motion at family court. She briefed her client, grabbed a take-out salad and an Americano, and took it back to her office to eat. After a few sips of the espresso drink, her energy returned. She’d only gotten about four hours of sleep last night. When she opened the paper this morning, the headlines blared: Rain, Rain, Go Away, Say City’s Women. And in smaller print: Police Advise Women to Stay in on Wet Nights. The police warned that the killer was using the weather to his advantage. Fortunately, the forecast was good for the week. A welcome reprieve for both the police and the city’s soggy residents.

Putting the voice mails on the speaker phone, she ate her salad while scribbling down phone numbers. The first six voice mails were the usual: lawyers needing to exchange information or set up meetings and clients wanting updates. The seventh voice mail stopped her in her tracks.

It was a young girl’s voice, hesitant, rough sounding, in complete contrast to the educated adult voices that had filled her message box. “It’s Shonda. You told me to call if I remembered the name of that dead girl Karen.”

Kate picked up her phone receiver.

“Anyway, it came to me all of a sudden. Her name is Karen Fawcett.”

There was a click, and then Kate’s voice mail went into its usual spiel. She replayed the message, wrote down Karen Fawcett’s name, then deleted the record.

The dead prostitute’s name blurred in front of her eyes. Shonda had come through for her. She hadn’t come through yet for Shonda.

Should she try to track her down? Ethan had warned
her—no, he’d ordered her—not to. To leave this to the police. She could jeopardize the investigation; she could inadvertently let a killer remain free.

But Karen Fawcett wasn’t a missing person. She was dead. And the cops believed she died from exposure. So she wasn’t even on their radar. Kate wouldn’t be jeopardizing their investigation if she kept her promise to Shonda. And right now, keeping her promise was the only thing she could hold on to.

All she needed to do was confirm that the prostitute died of exposure. The easiest way to confirm it would be her death certificate. But when she looked it up on online, she discovered that information was only accessible with permission from her next of kin.

She stared at her computer screen. There was another potential source of information. Karen Fawcett’s obituary. It might say something about the circumstances of her death. And it was in the public domain. Kate rubbed a hand over her face. She hated reading obituaries. She’d hated reading them ever since she’d had to help her mother write her sister’s. She hated seeing all those names associated with platitudes like they “fought a courageous battle.” It was never a battle they won.

Her fingers hit the keyboard with a fierceness that was meant to bolster her courage. Within minutes, she had located the local paper’s archives for the obituaries. Satisfaction overrode her reluctance. Karen Fawcett was in the database.

Kate scanned the sparse text. Karen had died last February. There was no mention of cause of death, although the obituary said Karen Marie had been taken to her Lord “suddenly.” It was eerily familiar to Imogen’s obituary in terms of its obliqueness. No one had wanted to
spell out the fact Imogen had been killed in a car crash. Given who was driving.

The obituary was pitifully short. Either Karen’s family didn’t have the money to spend on the text, or they had little to say about their dead child. Kate drummed her fingers on her desk. Charitable donations often indicated what had caused the death. But no charity was mentioned. The only guidance given to mourners was that Keane’s Funeral Home was handling the burial service.

A knock on the door made her swing her chair around.

“Your one o’clock canceled. She rescheduled for tomorrow,” Liz announced. Her eyes flickered over Kate’s computer monitor.

Kate nodded. “Right. Thank you, Liz.”

Liz threw one last look at the screen before leaving.

Kate shut down the computer.
Another dead end.
If she hadn’t been so disappointed, she might have enjoyed the gallows humor of her thought. But now she had nothing to tell Marian MacAdam and Shonda. She’d wanted to be able to reassure them that Karen Fawcett’s death was as innocuous as the police believed.

She rubbed her temples. There was one last avenue: the funeral home that had handled Karen’s remains. Maybe they would be able to give her some information. She jotted down the address.

Her fingers stilled. She stared at what she’d written. She’d been to that funeral home before. It had been called O’Brien’s fifteen years ago.

All of her ghosts were coming home. She just hoped they wouldn’t want to linger.

K
ate slung her purse over her shoulder and tried not to look self-conscious as she walked through the hallway of her firm. It was 4:45 p.m., early to be leaving. Certainly the earliest she had ever left LMB before. She bet none of the other first-year associates had left yet.

The traffic was heavy in the downtown core. It was 5:20 p.m. before she drove up to the front of the funeral home. A large, deep building, it had been transformed from a brick monolith to a Grecian-style mansion with white siding and massive columns. She would never have recognized it as the one in which her sister had lain.

Kate rang the bell next to a massive double door. Her palms were sweaty despite the cool air. She wiped her hands hurriedly on her skirt.

The door swung open. For a moment—a split second that made Kate catch her breath—she’d expected to see the erect figure of Mr. O’Brien, the previous funeral director, standing in the shadow of the door frame.

Instead, a blond woman in her forties held open the door. “Hello. May I help you?” she asked. Her voice was rougher than her clothes. She wore a chic, chocolate-brown suit with pinstripes in pale pink that covered a sturdy
frame. Brown suede pumps and chunky gold earrings were her sole accessories.

Kate guessed this was Anna Keane, the self-made businesswoman who had bought the aging funeral home from Mr. O’Brien and grew it into one of the largest and most successful funeral parlors on the Atlantic coast.

“Ms. Keane?”

The woman smiled. Her teeth glowed ultrawhite against her shiny lip gloss. “Yes.”

“I’m Kate Lange, from Lyons McGrath Barrett. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.” At the mention of her firm’s name, Kate saw the woman’s tanned face tighten. She probably thought she was being sued for a botched embalmment. Kate added with a placating smile, “I’m not here representing a client.”

This reassurance didn’t warm up Anna Keane. “Why don’t we talk in my office,” she said, her voice stiff. She ushered Kate into the foyer.

Kate looked around. Her heart, which had begun pounding as soon as she’d pulled into the parking lot, now began to beat crazily. The air closed in on her. Like when she was sixteen.

Breathe. You did it before. You can do it again.

Anna Keane walked quickly. Kate picked up her pace. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the interior had been updated in typical understated yet tastefully elegant funeral-home decor that was the current style. And yet she could have sworn when she’d walked in that it’d been the same dated furnishings of fifteen years ago.

Anna Keane led Kate to her office. It was graciously appointed, with a gleaming mahogany desk and navy chairs. Rather like Kate’s own. It was an uncomfortable realization. Business was business.

“Please have a seat.” Anna Keane pointed to a round conference table in the corner. A vase of white forget-me-nots was placed precisely in the middle. Kate sat down.

Anna Keane lowered herself in the chair opposite. “Why are you here?” She smiled after the question but Kate wasn’t fooled. Anna Keane wanted to take control of this discussion. And despite the funeral director’s cool composure, Kate sensed that her presence rattled her. She wondered if Anna Keane had any idea that the feeling was mutual.

“I’m doing some background checking on several women whose families were your clients,” Kate said. Her voice sounded high, tight.

Breathe slowly.

Anna Keane’s gaze sharpened. “Oh? And for what purpose?”

“More for my own conscience than anything else.” Her voice, thankfully, came out more assured this time.

“You realize that we cannot divulge private information about our clients, Ms. Lange.”

There was no getting around it; she’d have to be frank with Anna Keane if she hoped for any information from her. “Okay, here’s the story, Ms. Keane. I know the family of Lisa MacAdam.” The only sign that Anna Keane recognized the name was a slight raising of her brows. “Her grandmother was told by a friend of Lisa’s that several other girls had gone missing.” Anna Keane’s brows rose a fraction higher. “All of them have died, except for one. Two of them had their remains managed by your funeral home.”

Anna Keane leaned back, her eyes fixed on Kate. “Who were these girls who went missing?”

“Krissie Burns, Lisa MacAdam and Karen Fawcett.” Krissie’s identity had been announced in a press release
this morning, so Kate knew she wasn’t giving away anything she shouldn’t.

“I certainly recognize the name of the first two girls.” She shook her head. “What a tragedy about the MacAdam girl.”

“Do you remember anything about Karen Fawcett? She would have been another street kid or prostitute. She died last February. Your firm handled her service.”

Anna Keane gave her a weary smile. “We handle the remains of a lot of people like Karen. More than you can imagine.” She shrugged. “I thought it would be a small contract when the city asked for tenders to handle the remains of indigents. If I’d known I’d have so many, I would have charged more. We certainly don’t make any money, Ms. Lange.”

“Why is that?”

“Our contract just provides the basic cremation and interment. If the family suddenly appears—and you’d be surprised how many want to mourn someone they rejected while they were alive—they often want the extras to make up for the years their loved one lived on the street. So they ask for a service, flowers, an urn. They have to pay for those. Most of the time, they have no money.” She paused. “When the grief seems genuine, I write the extras off as a charitable donation.”

There was a ruminative look in Anna Keane’s eyes that made Kate suddenly think,
She’s a lot softer than she lets on.

“Do you remember anything about Karen Fawcett and her family? The police told Lisa’s friend she had died of exposure.”

Anna Keane closed her eyes for a moment. Kate noticed the fine lines around them. There were grooves around her lips, too. It couldn’t be easy facing death every day.

She opened her eyes and caught Kate studying her. “If
I recall correctly, Karen Fawcett was young? Maybe eighteen or twenty?”

“That sounds about right.”

“They found her frozen on a golf course.” Anna Keane leaned back in her chair. “Another young girl who had a drug habit that she fed by prostituting herself.”

“How did you know she had a drug habit?”

“If she’s the one I’m remembering, she had needle marks on her arms. In fact, the veins were shot. We found more marks between her toes. She was a real junkie.”

This woman must know a lot of the dead’s secrets. It was an unnerving thought. Kate hoped her body wouldn’t have any secrets to betray when she died.

“What about her family?”

Anna Keane shook her head. “She was just a straight contract delivery—cremation and interment in the city’s lot. Her family showed up later.” She shrugged. “That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid.” She rose to her feet.

Kate stood. “Thanks very much, Ms. Keane. I appreciate your help.”

Anna Keane walked her to the door. “I hope I put your conscience to rest.” She gave a crooked smile. “Even though morticians are supposed to handle the remains of the dead, I find I spend more time dealing with the remains of the living.”

Kate stared into Anna Keane’s light brown eyes. She wished she’d known Anna Keane when Imogen died. The funeral director seemed a genuine straight shooter, not dripping with fake concern or the barely concealed disapproval of Mr. O’Brien.

She held out her hand. “I think families would be very fortunate to have you help them at such a difficult time.”

“Thank you, Ms. Lange.” Anna Keane led her to the main doors.

Anna Keane opened the door. Kate suddenly remembered Shonda’s other friend. “Have you ever heard of Vangie Wright? She’s the friend of Lisa’s that no one can account for.”

Anna Keane shook her head. “Sorry, Ms. Lange. I’ve never heard of her.” She smiled again. “Believe me, in my business, that’s a good thing.”