Justifiable (25 page)

Dr. Ziegler hadn’t said anything definite, but she did say Kelsey was exhibiting the signs that someone might have touched her inappropriately.

Lucinda ignored the sick roll of her stomach and forced a casual tone, hoping not to raise his suspicions. The doctor had also said it was common for the abuse to be someone close to the child. “I wanted a medical opinion on Kelsey’s behavioral issues.” 

That sounded like Kelsey was acting out, not in such deep depression and withdrawal that her own mother couldn’t reach her.

“Did the doctor find anything wrong?” The way Stan said that sounded as if he thought she’d taken Kelsey to the medical group they saw as a family.

God forgive her, she wasn’t correcting his misconception.

“Kelsey is physically healthy, as far as we know. I just wanted to be sure there wasn’t something we were missing.”  If Lucinda told her husband Kelsey was seeing a psychiatrist, the renowned Dr. Ziegler, would Stan understand and be supportive?

Or would his first concern be that news of his daughter seeing a doctor as well known locally for treating child abuse as Dr. Phil was known nationally for relationship issues might create negative public perception for him?

Stan was in a business that exploited personal situations for the benefit of a news broadcast after all.

Until a couple of days ago, Lucinda would have known the right answer instantly. She’d have had no doubt that Stan would be more concerned about her and Kelsey than anything else.

But now she didn’t know.

And at this minute, Kelsey was her priority.

Lucinda would worry about her marriage later. The possibility that she’d fallen in love with, and married, a man who could hurt her child nauseated her almost as much as it terrified her, but she would risk all to assure Kelsey’s safety.

Even exposing Stan if she found him guilty. But she had to be sure first.

His shoulders dropped. “Okay, that’s fine. I was worried. Did the doctor say anything about how she’s...acting?” 

Lucinda had never been adept at lying so she shook her head.

Stan raised his gaze to hers with the same love-filled look that had smitten her when he’d asked her to marry him. He started to speak, then stepped back and closed the door before turning back to her. “I felt so bad about losing my temper yesterday that I went to see our priest. I told you when we married I had grown up an only child and never spent much time around kids.”

Her heart shook with tremors of guilt over the doubt firmly wedged into her every thought of Stan. He sounded so sincere. Was she overreacting to what she’d seen and heard up in Kelsey’s room? Stan needed her as much as Kelsey did right now.
Please, God, help me find the answers. I don’t want to destroy my marriage, but I have to protect my baby.

Lucinda couldn’t stand there with him sounding sincere and not offer him something. She still loved him and wanted to believe she was wrong to suspect him. “I understand the strain you’re under and I’m trying to deal with Kelsey’s problems so you aren’t bothered.”

Stan came over and pulled her into his arms.

She hated that she cringed inside, afraid to be touched by him until she knew the truth.

He kissed the top of her head. “I don’t mind being bothered when it comes to Kelsey or you. She’s important to me, too. Very important. I love her and it’s my job to make sure she knows that. I feel like I’ve been neglecting both of you lately, but her in particular. That’s got to be why she was so fussy around me the other day, but I’ll fix it. I’m going to take her with me more often and spend some one-on-one time together. Maybe I’ll plan a day just for the two of us.”

Lucinda’s mouth went dry.

Stan was not going to be alone with Kelsey ever again until Lucinda knew without a doubt that he had not molested her child.

Chapter 32

Turner scratched his ear and sat back in his creaky desk chair, considering the best way to broach a touchy subject with Investigator Massey, who had asked for a minute to reply to a text. The steady rumble of voices in the bullpen outside his office only quieted in the early morning hours when detectives were digging for information and thinking of possible leads.

“Sorry, Detective, but that was the DA.”  Kirsten shoved her cell phone into her simple black shoulder bag with no designer label swinging from a chain. She came from money, but a person would have to search for that information to know it.

“No problem, Ms. Massey.”

“Could you do me a favor and call me Kirsten?”

He was genuinely surprised by the request, but nodded. “Sure thing, Kirsten. You’re welcome to call me J. T.”

She smiled as if she’d gained a small victory. “You were saying you had news.”

“I got the results from the blood sample on the blanket piece we found at the cemetery and the blood doesn’t belong to Enrique.”

“That was quick.”

“We got lucky, if you want to think of it that way, because Enrique had just been in the hospital and they drew blood. The rest of the evidence is going to take a while to get processed with the usual backlog.”

“I’m working on getting funds to pay outside labs to process the evidence, but it’s tough with the budget cuts.”

“I understand.”  Turner wanted to lead her toward his goal for this discussion. “I think there’s a chance Enrique may still be alive.”

“I want that child to still be alive, too, but the odds are not in his favor.”

“I know that. I have a profiler working on the evidence we have so far. She says it’s erratic behavior for a serial killer and kidnapping a child doesn’t fit any particular serial killer pattern either. That alone points to not relying on standard assumptions in a case like this. Walker said the guy told him the kid was still alive.”

“Walker.”  She said the name with all the pleasure of discussing a poisonous snake.

“Does that mean your conversation didn’t go well this morning?”

“He wasn’t receptive.” 

“We need him.”

“Why?”

“He’s coming up with information we don’t have. Walker found out the kid’s blanket had been stolen from Sally’s apartment after her body was found, which points to the possibility the killer knew Sally personally. Walker may be able to tap information we can’t access or just don’t have the warm bodies to run down.”

“I hear you.”  She sat like a proper lady, but her fingers were never still, always moving as if she played an invisible piano. “I shouldn’t have busted on him so hard this morning.”

“Why did you?”

She shrugged. “I grew up around newsmen who sacrificed all for the almighty ratings points. I didn’t expect to meet one with integrity.”

“I’ve had my run-ins with the media, but Walker knows he’s under a microscope. He’s making every effort to work with us. If this cemetery killing is tied to Sally Stanton’s by that caller and that scrap of blanket – if it is Enrique’s, and I’m betting it is – then we have a serial killer. I’ve got men chasing down every possible connection between Stanton and Bruno Parrick. He’s the vic from the cemetery.”

“Did he know Sally or work around Philomena House?”

“Don’t know. They were both killed by a .38 caliber. I’ll have ballistics back later today. But if we’re going to believe the same person is calling Walker, which I think is the case, and the killer told Walker that Enrique is still alive, we have to work on the premise the child’s alive and these are related killings.”

“Do we know if there are any other deaths tied to these two? Walker brought up the murdered vic from Philomena killed two weeks ago that was closed as drug related.”  Kirsten sat back, deflated. “This is not heading in a good direction. We can’t drag anything connected to St. Catherine’s into this mess without something concrete. Not after what they suffered over the last year.”

“I understand, but we’re going to have to dig deeper on this and Walker might be the answer.”

“What do you mean?”

“We can tie his hands or let him run. He’s already sniffing around St. Catherine’s. WNUZ was the one station that did
not
hang the bishop out to dry last year so they aren’t going to run anything sensational about the church. That’s the best control over Walker right now. I won’t let him interfere in my investigation, but I say we give him some room to move.”

Understanding spread across Kirsten’s face as she considered his suggestion. “You’re right, but to do that I’ll have to patch things up with him.”

“I bet he’d let you if you gave him an opening.”

“You’d lose money. I’ve called twice and gotten his voice mail. We know he’s monitoring his cell phone so he’s avoiding my calls.”

“I’ve got something I don’t think he has on this case that you can use to bargain with since we don’t have the funds to process the evidence fast. But don’t trade unless you can get us something that helps me solve this case.”

She perked up. “Deal.”

Chapter 33

All Riley’s senses warned he was entering a hostile situation, but he had no choice if he wanted a chance to explain to Biddy. He stepped over the shattered beer bottle and newspaper on the sidewalk and pushed open a steel door similar to the kind found at the delivery entrance to a warehouse.

But the edges of this one had been chewed up with a crow bar at one time. 

If parking his Tundra outside Philomena House had been a gamble, leaving his truck alone on Girard Avenue in this section of Ludlow constituted high stakes wagering.

Late 90s rock music pulsed in waves from speakers hidden in the textured black ceiling of Pete’s Trapdoor Bar.

Riley hadn’t seen a trapdoor outside or in here, but the minute his eyes adjusted to the low lighting he felt certain he’d found Pete. The mammoth bartender with skin like soot stood two inches under Riley’s height, but outweighed him an easy seventy pounds in boulder-size muscle. He leaned on a varnished wood bar twenty feet long.

And gave Riley a dead stare that televised a mix of messages.

What are you doing here? Who are you looking for? I could kill you with the beer in my hand and not spill a drop
.

At least, Riley considered that last one possible. Biddy picked this place and sent a text to be here by two o’clock, which passed ten minutes ago.

Of course, Biddy didn’t say
he’d
be here at two.

Riley scanned the crowd that seemed busy paying attention to their meals or in quiet discussions in small groups.  Testosterone squeezed the air tight, as if this place stayed on alert for a threat.

Special Ops clubhouse.

Silent, Pete still eyed Riley as if sizing him up to determine how big a hole he’d need to dig to hide the body.

If Biddy didn’t show soon, Riley had no doubt he’d be given one chance to walk out under his own power. Riley had been in, and started, his share of bar brawls in his early years, enough to know when retreat made more sense.

Biddy strolled into the room from the back, which probably housed the bathrooms. He slowed at the dartboard area to high-five a guy who could probably arm-wrestle a silverback ape and win. After a brief exchange of words, Biddy continued to the bar where he noticed Riley. He crooked his head at Riley and told Pete. “He’s with me.” 

Pete nodded, which Riley took to be the equivalent of “Hey, nice to meet you.” 

“Let’s go over there.”  Biddy angled his head at the corner.

Riley strode to the table. He’d seen plenty of joints like this, the floor stained with years of spilled ale, décor ala the local beer distributors and not enough lighting to order off the menu, because guess what? No menu. Just like the non-existent outdoor sign. The only identifying mark on the exterior of the building was a street number half-ass painted on the rusty corrugated metal siding as an afterthought.

Not even a local hang out. No one drank here without being screened.

Peanut shells crunched under Riley’s boot when he stopped at an oil-colored wood table so abused it might have had a cinematic career at one time in western bar fight scenes. The chair he pulled out missed two rungs between the legs.

He sat down with his back to the wall where he could see the room and keep an eye on anyone encroaching on their conversation. A waste of time since practically all of the dozen men shooting darts or laughing over beers had taken note of Riley the minute he entered their space, then ignored him as soon as Biddy vouched for him.

Biddy took the chair on Riley’s left, another gunslinger position where he could eye the room.

“Thanks for meeting me.”  Riley hadn’t intentionally left Biddy hanging, but by the time he got his phone back the messages from Biddy had gone from trying to find him to one terse string of curses.

“Um-hm.”  Biddy folded his hands over his chest.

“Kirsten put me under arrest at the site this morning.”

Biddy swung his gaze around, eyebrow cocked in question. “She arrest your phone, too?”

“Matter of fact, she did or I’d have caught you before you left your house for the station.”  

Pete plopped two draft beers on the table and walked off. No questions.