Don't Be Afraid (3 page)

It was likely to be the ex, despite what Ms. Moran said. It usually was the spouse or the ex-spouse or a neighbor or friend who’d been jilted. Much of police work was paint-by-the-numbers: predictable domestic situations, known-to-victim homicides, break-ins prompted by drug habits, shoplifting, car heists and the occasional ill-conceived bank robbery.

It was the same here as in the city. Oh, the domestic situations were a bit different, say, from what he’d witnessed in housing projects in the city. More muted, sometimes, but otherwise virtually identical. Alcoholic husbands who beat their wives looked pretty much the same everywhere, even if the assailants wore hand-tailored suits and drove BMWs instead of riding the city bus to low-paying jobs.

Most police work involved getting enough evidence to arrest and convict the sons-of-bitches who committed these crimes. It wasn’t particularly glamorous, but it sure was satisfying to lock up some of these excuses for human beings.

Still, there was something niggling him about this killing. Something that didn’t fit with the usual sort of homicide. That snipped-off finger kept coming to mind.

“Entry point at the base of the head centered near the spinal column,” Crane intoned. “Entry wound not consistent with a gunshot. Wound approximately one-eighth in diameter. Perfectly cylindrical suggesting a single thrust that must have impacted with the brain stem. Death probably instantaneous. Limited discharge from the wound, also inconsistent with gunshot.”

Black held up a hand to interrupt and Crane switched off his machine. “What about an unusual gun—Japanese model or something high-powered?”

Crane shook his head. “It’s just not consistent.”

“Ice pick?”

“Possibly. I won’t rule that out at this stage.”

“Well, what else could it be? It’s pretty damn round.”

“I’m assuming you’ll keep looking for a murder weapon, detective,” Crane said. “Now let me do my job.”

Black stepped back, arms folded. Juarez moved beside him. “What about the finger?”

Black turned his glare on him. “What
about
the finger?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

“Doesn’t fit the angry ex-spouse.”

“Why? He’s pissed, he wants the ring back, and he cuts it off. It’s a show of power.”

“Then why not leave it. And why so clean? It doesn’t look bitten off or hacked off. It looks snipped off. Too neat.”

Black grunted. “Well, you can ask this bastard Sylvester that when we catch him. You get the number?”

Juarez shook his head. “General idea of where he lives, though. And that’s another thing. Why here, in this house? Wouldn’t he confront her in her own house?”

“Christ, Juarez, I’m not this poor woman’s drunken ex, how the hell should I know? People do stupid things all the time. It’s the reason you and I have a job.”

Crane finished describing what he could about the injuries to the victim’s hands and shut off the recorder for a moment, stepping to one side to allow Black to bag them.

“Be careful not to lose the blood,” he said to Black, who growled in response. Juarez hid a smile.

“Yeah, be careful,” he said under his breath, but loud enough for Black to hear him. The older detective shot him the finger and Juarez laughed.

Lab technicians moved in to help. Black attempted to pick up one hand and immediately stopped. “What the hell?” he muttered. Dubow tried to lift the other hand and also stopped.

“What’s the matter?” Crane said.

“We can’t move her,” Black said with astonishment in his voice. “She’s nailed to the fucking floor.”

The finger was a beauty. Guy smiled at the cleanly severed bone and removed the ring, careful not to damage the skin around it. The jewelry interested him less, but he polished the band nonetheless, admiring the cut of the marquis diamond before setting it aside.

He attached the finger, nail up, to a small padded clamp, suspending it so that any blood that hadn’t been soaked up by the white cheesecloth would spill into a glass bowl. The skin was already changing color and becoming waxy.

He pulled out a small tin box he kept in a drawer and carefully arranged the seven colors of nail polish it held on the desk’s surface. The newest, an orangey shade called “Tangerine Mist” was still unopened. He didn’t know why Violet had never worn it. Perhaps she’d regretted the purchase, but he opened it now before adjusting the clamp so the nail was horizontal.

Applying the polish evenly took a steady hand and he hummed a little Mozart under his breath. While he waited for the first coat to dry, he fixed a drink.

He tended to follow a very similar routine when he got home: take care of souvenirs, have a drink, shower, change and eat something light that wouldn’t upset his stomach before going to bed. Sometimes he was so excited that he skipped the eating, but he always had the drink.

He fixed a vodka tonic and took a couple of sips before sitting back down to finish his work. A second coat of varnish and the nail was a lovely shimmery orange. As soon as it was dry, he carefully undid the clamps and laid the finger on a bed of cotton in a small cardboard box. He sealed the box and marked it with the name and date and then he opened the small freezer and moved it in next to the others. Things were getting crowded. He might have to invest in bigger storage.

The ring went in a separate box, large, flat and velvet-lined, that he kept in the bottom drawer in his desk. He took a moment to play with the other pieces he’d collected, trying to conjure up tangible memories as he held them in his hands, but there was nothing beyond a pleasant sensation. It had been this way for several years now. He needed to touch flesh to relive those glorious moments.

When everything was away and his drink finished, he retired to the bathroom and took a long, leisurely shower. Violet hated that. She used to hammer on the door to hurry him along. As always when he thought of her, there was a dull pain, like his stomach was being pinched from the inside out. He took a casual measure of it as he toweled off and realized that the ache of that loss was still there, but not nearly as strong as it had been even a week ago.

There was still a picture of her on the nightstand, one of the few things she’d left behind. She was smiling in it, openmouthed, as if she’d been laughing at something funny, just as she’d been when he first met her. He first spotted her at the movies, caught by the sound of laughter as the lights came up, turning to see hair like a cascade of rippling black water, eyes a shade of blue that made him think of violets and a smile of welcome that seemed brighter when she talked to him.

He called her “Violet” and she called him “Guy.” These were their private names for each other. From the beginning he knew that she was his destiny and he proposed on their third date.

She laughed. Afterwards, he would think about that laugh and wonder what it meant, whether it was a warning he should have heeded. At the time he was mesmerized by her and incapable of doing anything but begging for her response. “Yes, Guy,” she said finally with a deliberation that told him she was careful. Later he would think she was calculating. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

When he got his next paycheck, he spent it all on a spectacular diamond engagement ring. He planned the wedding with her down to every detail, including what sort of flowers they should have: cascades of violets.

He didn’t share his avocation with her. Not initially. Like any artist, he was sensitive about opening himself to the public’s criticism. Plus, he knew that it would frighten her. Someday, she would be ready, but until then he would practice his skills in private so that it wouldn’t disturb her, waiting until she’d gone to sleep before slipping out of their bed to watch the neighbors.

Except she caught him at it. Surprising him one night when he was fingering the jewelry he’d taken, misinterpreting this and his obvious absence from their bed. She thought he was cheating on her and resisted his efforts to explain, albeit obliquely.

She didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand. Was this the moment he knew it wouldn’t work? Certainly, it was a moment of great disappointment. He’d anticipated being able to share the experience with her, but she wasn’t open to it. He began thinking of her less as a flower and more as a closed bud.

The dream of the house tied them together. Ultimately, it was the only thing they had left, but that bitch of a realtor intervened at every step. There was always something else to consider, some other expense they hadn’t foreseen. Violet thought he wasn’t working hard enough, but she didn’t know that he worked double the hours of most men. She closed her eyes to the evidence that he was gone at night. She refused to discuss the special room he wanted in the basement. She told Sheila about it, though. He’d overheard her on the phone laughing about “Guy’s fantasies.”

After it was over, after she’d left him, after he’d finished crying over what he couldn’t make work, he realized that this was the cost of his gift. He couldn’t have the life of other men because fate had seen to it that he didn’t live like other men.

In this realization came strength. If he couldn’t be like other men, he’d be stronger. How many athletes over time had eschewed sex because it drained them? He would be like that. He would be stronger without her.

Taking down Sheila had been a pleasure. She was so oblivious to his planning, the selfish bitch. He’d followed her several times in his car and she’d never been aware of him. Getting her schedule had been trivial—a simple phone call. Breaking into the house was only slightly more of a challenge. In disguise at an open house, he’d discovered that the security system was disabled while the house was on the market. All he had to do that morning was pick the lock and that was a skill he’d perfected over the years. It took him barely five minutes.

He’d been waiting for her in the master bedroom, knowing that her own compulsive behavior would ensure that she’d check every room in the house. He’d picked the master bedroom because it was a statement about what she’d destroyed in his own life, though he doubted that she or anyone else understood the symbolism.

He’d stepped out of the shadows in the closet and softly called her name and she’d screamed, just as he’d thought she would. But then she’d laughed, trying hard to be brave, acting as if his being there made some sort of sense and asking what he needed, as if it had been just yesterday that she’d seen him and not months before.

Justice was meted out with careful deliberation, just as it should be. He’d shown her the nail gun and told her how he’d found it at the abandoned building site. He’d silenced her skillfully, holding her trembling head still with one hand wrapped tightly around her blond hair. She’d been scared when she felt the pressure at the base of her neck and he’d relished that fear, pressing his erection against her. He took his time, running the nail gun along her spine, whispering about the damage it could do to her body, letting her believe that maybe he’d let her live.

She begged him. She would have done anything he asked if only he’d let her go, but he didn’t. Once he’d shot her, staggering under the sudden weight as her body sagged in his arms, he laid her carefully on the floor. He arranged her to his liking, pinning her to the floor and plugging out her eyes, her breasts. It was all very simple.

Only then suddenly it wasn’t. He heard a car door slam and then the other woman was in the house. There’d been no time to leave, no time to do more then step back into the closet.

The shock when he saw her. A complete shock because it was Violet he saw when she came into the room. The same cascade of dark hair, the same oval face, the same dark-blue eyes that seemed to spot him when she scanned the room. He’d almost called out to her, so eager was his mind to make it her, but then she’d stepped closer to Sheila’s body, and he’d realized that it wasn’t her after all. The eyes were a different shade of blue and this woman was taller, and her gait was different. Still, they could have been sisters, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He wanted to touch her, to stroke her hair, but she moved too swiftly for him, running from the room when she realized Sheila was dead.

He didn’t pursue her through the dark hallways of that house, knowing that she wouldn’t welcome his embrace, not there, not like that. She’d be afraid of him and he didn’t want that.

He knew she’d phone the police, so he’d left, slipping out the same back door he’d come in, pulling it locked behind him and crossing the barren grass into the patch of woodland that bordered the property. His car wasn’t far away and he was a fit man. The nail gun was warm and heavy against his side and he stuck his cold hands into his pockets, whistling in the cold, brisk air.

Lying alone in the large carved bed that had been his and Violet’s, he stroked himself as he thought of the dark-haired woman, coming when he relived her cry on discovering Sheila’s body. He slept more soundly that night than any other night since his Violet had gone and he woke with a clear sense of what he had to do.

On the night her marriage ended, Amy had come home from her first solo show to find her husband in bed with another woman.

He was supposed to be working late; that had been his explanation for missing the highlight of his artist wife’s professional life. Big case, sorry, honey, but it can’t be helped. An explanation she’d accepted because that’s the way it was when you were an up-and-coming lawyer who wanted to make partner at a big firm.

Everything else about that evening—the gallery in Soho, the glamorous feel of the red velvet dress she’d worn, the pleasurable sensation of seeing her photography being admired, the glittery lights, the buzz of champagne—all of it had faded in her memory.

Only one image stuck out: Chris tight in the embrace of another woman.

Amy had dropped into an armchair, too stunned to support her own weight. She was sitting in the same chair now, having made it home and in the door, thanks to the Steerforth police. She’d called Braxton Realty on the ride in the squad car, managing to tell the office manager about Sheila and having them postpone the closing. It couldn’t happen now anyway, not until the police were done with their investigation. Once the buyers found out what had happened in their brand-new master bedroom, they might very well back out of the deal.

She’d made it as far as her own bedroom before collapsing. Strewn across the bed were the various skirts and blouses she’d pulled from her wardrobe only to discard. It had started as such a promising morning—her first big sale, the beginning of financial freedom for her and Emma. It seemed inconceivable that so much could change in just a few hours.

Amy’s whole body was trembling and she kept seeing Sheila lying on the floor. But just as when things with Chris had blown apart, she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around what had happened. That couldn’t have been Sheila. Sheila couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t be, but she was.

The ticking of the clock on the wall reminded her that she had to go soon, had to pick up Emma at kindergarten. Today was a half day and Emma looked forward to spending the afternoon with Mommy. Sometimes they walked into town and had lunch at Joe’s Diner, a converted train car on the edge of the shopping district, all shiny chrome and red leatherette seats. Or Emma had lunch while Amy nursed a glass of iced tea because she had the money to buy Emma the mac-and-cheese off the kiddie menu, but didn’t dare spend the money on lunch for herself.

Today, though, with the closing fresh in her mind, she’d been going to treat them both. Lunch for both of them at Joe’s and ice cream to follow.

Not anymore, not now. Amy didn’t think she could manage it. She wasn’t sure she could manage anything. She pressed a hand against her mouth as a fresh wave of grief washed over her and saw through a blur of tears the smears of dirt and grass stains on the cuff of her blouse.

Change clothes. That’s what she should do. She had to do something; she couldn’t sit here like this. She had a sudden memory of Sheila talking to her about that, eight months before when she first met her.

“You’ve got to get up and get dressed every single day,” Sheila had preached. “Even if you feel like shit. Even if you feel like it’s going to take all your energy just to get vertical, you’ve got to do it.”

She’d followed that advice because it was hard not to follow Sheila, a five-foot, four-inch buxom blond dynamo who loved spike heels, big sunglasses and the color hot pink.

She’d been something of a surprise that first meeting at the Single Parent Support Group. Amy had seen the notice posted at the library and held out for at least two weeks before the desperate urge to have a childfree evening and some adult conversation overcame her fear of attending some weirdo self-help group at St. Andrew’s Catholic Church.

For the first few minutes after arriving she wished she hadn’t bothered. The meeting was in the basement, a low-ceilinged, poorly lit room with leftover Christmas decorations piled in a corner next to a blue felt banner on a pole that said
PREPARE THE WAY OF THE LORD
. Milling around the coffee urn and store-bought cookies or sitting in one of the folding chairs set up in a semicircle were some of the most desperate-looking adults Amy had ever seen.

Then she’d met Sheila. Or rather, Sheila had met her. Striding over to say hello, she’d offered Amy her first piece of advice: “Honey, I can tell you feel like crap, but that doesn’t mean you have to look like it.”

It hardly seemed like an opening that would form a friendship, but the truth was that Amy was looking as miserable as she felt and everybody who knew about her split with Chris was treating her like she’d crack if they did anything but congratulate her for the little bit of grooming she managed to do. “You’ve combed your hair—good job!” So she’d been stunned into laughing at Sheila’s remark and then pouring out her troubles to this little woman in a pink wool suit.

And before long the rest of the group had gathered in the semicircle to “share,” as the facilitator had said, making Amy cringe. Only it turned out that talking about what had happened with her marriage had been cathartic. In some weird way, admitting to a group of strangers that it hadn’t been the first time her husband had cheated on her, that she’d stayed with him through multiple affairs, provided her with a feeling of release. They applauded when she talked about the moment she realized she was finally ready to leave him and afterwards several people came up to welcome her to Steerforth.

It was the first time that she’d felt that leaving Chris, leaving the city and trying to start over again in Steerforth, might actually work.

Of course, she’d been lucky to have the house. On better days, on days when she thought things might just work out and she’d be able to support herself and her child, she was grateful for the house.

It had been a wedding gift to both her and Chris from his wealthy and eccentric great-aunt. The late Louisa Moran had been especially fond of her great-nephew and she’d extended this fondness to his fiancée, though she’d only met Amy a handful of times. Once, at a family reunion, she’d pulled Amy close with one arthritic hand and said that she was far “too good for the likes of this family.” A smile and a wink, the rheumy blue eyes twinkling, but Amy sometimes wondered if she’d known what Chris was really like and had somehow foreseen the future.

When the shock had worn off that awful night, Amy realized that the house offered an escape. She knew she had to leave. She’d reached the breaking point in her marriage, but she also knew that she had no money to rent a place of her own in the city. She’d thought of the house and it seemed like the perfect solution.

What she’d quickly learned, of course, was that the charm of an old cottage paled when you had to deal daily with its quirks.

It was two story, but had its own quirky footprint. A gray-blue frame outside that matched the color of the Sound, which could be seen off in the distance from a second-floor window. It had an old stove, radiators that rumbled when the heat came on and the original windows that rattled in their frames.

Slowly, ever so slowly, they made it home. Emma slept through the night in her own room now, instead of dashing into her mother’s bed, frightened by unfamiliar creaks and groans. Amy put a welcome mat at the front door and hung curtains from the windows.

Once she’d made some more money, she planned to make real improvements. First, she’d found work photographing houses for Braxton’s website. When it became clear that even with this work and other freelance photography Amy couldn’t afford to start her own business, much less drag enough clientele away from the local studio to make a steady income, Sheila suggested that she become an agent.

Amy stripped off the soiled clothes and left them on the floor of the closet. She didn’t know if she could bear to wear them again. She changed into jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt and tried to scrub her face clear of tears. She tried to stay focused on the present, on Emma, on moving forward, even though she felt like curling up in the fetal position.

It was Sheila who’d always preached perseverance. Sheila knew when people needed a helping hand, but also believed strongly that sometimes the biggest help was a kick in the pants.

She always told her own story, managing to make a bad marriage to a meth-using drunkard sound vaguely comical. She even managed to find humor in the horror of fleeing with her two young sons while “the bastard,” as she’d dubbed him, was sleeping off another binge after giving her a ritual beating.

“You get through it, sweetie. No man is worth throwing your life away, but I didn’t know that for so long.”

She’d point to a small, jagged line of white, a faint scar marring the line of her perfectly tweezed eyebrow. “His wedding ring did this to me. The ring I put on his finger, even though he’d hit me the day before our wedding. Chalked it up to pre-wedding jitters, said I was making him feel pressured. When I look at that scar, I remind myself never to be that dumb again.”

And she hadn’t been. She was the farthest thing from dumb that Amy could imagine, so how had she ended up dead? Had she actually opened the door to Trevor? And why on earth would he have followed her?

None of it made sense, least of all that Sheila, so vibrant, so successful, so kind under that hard-talking exterior, was gone.

It was late and Emma hated it when she was late. Amy didn’t trust herself behind the wheel. Her whole body was still shaking and she suddenly wished that she’d taken up the detective’s offer of a ride to the hospital. If only there was someone to watch Emma. If only she had someone else to share the burden.

And the thought that she tried to push out, but came at least once a day, reared its ugly head, tearing through her with a pang of hurt that never seemed to go away:
If only Chris were here
.

Emma was standing alone with the young kindergarten aide when Amy arrived. The five-year-old hurled herself at her mother, yelling, “You’re late!” The fierceness of her hug was an accusation.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Amy apologized, holding her daughter close and looking up to include the young woman in her apology. The aide was already walking back into the building.

Amy took Emma’s Disney Princess backpack and listened to her chatter about what letters they were working on and how badly behaved the boys were in class. Her little hand felt warm and comforting. Alive. Amy clutched it, until Emma pulled away.

“Mommy, you’re hurting me.” She skipped out of reach, small ponytail bobbing, and threw a smile back over her shoulder at her mother.

“Emmy,” Amy called, using a nickname she knew her daughter was particularly fond of, “slow down and walk with me.”

She needed to hold her daughter’s hand; she needed the weight of it to ground her. It would be okay, things would be okay. With every step she repeated this mantra, but another one repeated itself:
Sheila is dead, Sheila is dead, Sheila is dead
.

 

 

There was a hush when Amy walked into Braxton Realty the next morning. Agents paused in their morning rituals to stare, their faces a mixture of sympathy and interest.

“I didn’t think you’d be in today,” Douglas Myers said, sidling over to her with his usual proprietary air. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

“Yes, thanks.” She managed a brittle smile. “The houses won’t sell themselves.”

He laughed. “How true. But surely you can spare a moment to talk about Sheila. Did you see her? How was she killed?”

“I’ve got work to do, Douglas.” Amy pushed on toward her desk and thanked God he didn’t follow. She had to swallow a few times to keep her stomach down, anger and bile rising in equal amounts.

The office strove for elegance with its reproduction Georgian furniture and faux dynasty vases, complete with miniature orange trees.

The trees were dusty though, and the striped silk of the small sofa in the entryway bore the outline of a soda stain. The potpourri couldn’t quite overtake the faint odors of microwave popcorn and takeout Chinese.

The closing had been postponed indefinitely, a note on her desk informed her. “In light of what happened,” the buyers wanted to renegotiate price. Amy had never smoked a cigarette in her life, but felt desperately like starting. Rummaging in her desk, she found a stick of gum and popped it into her mouth.

“Amy, we’re so sorry.” Amy looked up to see Claire Rubinstein, the office manager, standing at the edge of her cubicle. Her angular, immaculately powdered face wore an expression of mourning and determination, gray eyes shrewd behind the small reading glasses.

“We were horrified by the news, just horrified.”

Claire had a bad habit of talking in the royal “we,” although Amy suspected that she truly believed it was her duty to speak for the entire office.

“I see you got the info about the closing,” she said. “The Towles weren’t pleased, of course, but who can blame them? None of us were expecting this, I told Mr. Towle.”

“Least of all Sheila,” Amy said dryly and Claire blinked at her and gave a nervous laugh, hands rising to fiddle with her glasses.

“Of course,” she said, regaining her composure. “Do the police have any idea who did it?”

“Maybe her ex. That’s all I know.”

“Trevor? I thought he’d stopped bothering Sheila years ago. Were they having any issues with the boys?”

“I don’t think so.”

But she didn’t know. Had Sheila been struggling with Trevor over something new? What issues had Sheila been dealing with that Amy didn’t know anything about?

Suddenly Amy wanted to know. The shock and sorrow she’d been experiencing gave way to a fierce determination to find out who had killed Sheila and why.

Sheila practically lived at the office when she wasn’t home with her kids. Amy hurried over to the empty cubicle across the room.

There was nothing immediately obvious. Framed photos of Michael and Jason sat in one corner, next to a large pink African violet and a mug that said
WORLD’S GREATEST MOM
.