Mistaken Identity (9 page)

Sixteen

Lucinda drove back to the justice center musing over Jeanine’s dysfunctional family. It blended in her head with her own. By the time she parked her car, she’d shifted to thoughts of Ted and how his relationship with his wife had fallen apart, and wondering about the impact on his kids.

Grudgingly, she reached the conclusion that although Ted had been a real jerk for the last year or so, she’d not been a good friend to him. In fact, she knew she’d been downright bitchy – ripping him to shreds for sins that were very much like her own.

She would go to the funeral tomorrow. She needed to start contributing to the emotional health of her family instead of being part of the problem. She needed to do the same for Ted – she’d been badgering him for far too long and it hadn’t done a damn bit of good.

Getting out of the elevator, she almost hoped he wouldn’t be there. If he was, she knew she’d have to act on her new-found understanding and she dreaded that his reaction wouldn’t be what she hoped. But there he was, hunched over his keyboard performing heaven knew what digital magic.

“Hey, Ted, you got a minute?” she asked.

In a flash he was on his feet with his arms folded protectively across his chest. “Yeah, what is it, Lucinda?”

“Look at you. Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“Lucinda …” he said, taking a step backward and pulling his arms tighter.

“Okay. I deserve that reaction. I’ve been a bitch and I know it – except you’re not allowed to say that.”

Ted shifted his eyes back and forth, still wary. His shoulders relaxed as the tension in his posture eased up a notch. “What are you up to, Lucinda?”

“Well, for starters, I wanted to let you know I’m going up to Charlottesville for my Uncle Hank’s funeral tomorrow.”

“You are?” Ted said, dropping his arms in surprise.

“Yep. Somebody has to take the lead on calling an end to this tired, dysfunctional family drama. And no matter how long I wait, it’ll never be Maggie.”

“Well, good.”

“There’s something else I need to say, Ted. I really want you to shut up and listen and not interrupt me.”

Ted’s arms flew back to their protective position. “What?”

“I’m serious, Ted. If you start getting defensive and arguing with me, I’m apt to get pissed despite my best intentions.”

His jaw throbbed as he muttered “Okay” through tight lips.

“I know that part of my problem with my family is that I feel guilty for leaving my little sister and brother behind, even though I had no choice in the matter. And I believe that guilt is what is behind your reaction to Ellen and her problems.”

“Lucinda …”

“No, Ted, shut up. All I am asking you to do is think about that. Do you feel any unwarranted guilt over the death of your baby? Do you feel any guilt over not being able to keep Ellen from falling down so low? Do you feel any guilt for wrapping yourself in phony feelings about me to keep Ellen and her problems at a distance?”

“Lucinda, there is nothing phony …”

“Shut up, Ted. Don’t defend yourself. Just listen and then think about it. That’s all I ask. You can decide that I’m full of crap. That’s fine. Just think about it. And think about the effect all of this discord is having on your kids. You can’t move on with your life, Ted, until you’ve resolved the issues of your past. Okay? Promise me you’ll think about this.”

“I can talk now?”

“Yes, Ted. Don’t be a jerk.”

“Okay. I’ll give it some thought. I doubt if it will make a difference.”

“Ted, that’s life. I don’t know that going to visit my family with a positive attitude is going to make any difference but I’m doing it. All I’m asking is that you open yourself up to other possibilities.”

“And after that, Lucinda. What then? What will it mean for us?”

“Ted, we had a relationship in high school. Right now, put that in the past and deal with the present. Both of our lives are too screwed up at this point in time to add that complication to them. Deal with today, Ted, and let tomorrow come. Okay?”

“Yep.”

She wasn’t certain if anything she said made any difference but she had to let that go – she was not responsible for Ted’s reaction. “Now, I’m driving up tomorrow morning and driving back as soon as I can – I’ll get back sometime tomorrow night. Remember how you were talking about creating a virtual incident room?”

“Yeah, I’ve been tossing it around. I think it’s doable and I think I can make it user-friendly and easy to understand even for a technological dinosaur now that I have a bigger flat screen that can display it all at once.”

“I’d like you to try creating one for the Sterling homicides. I’ll give you my notes, my reports – everything I’ve got so far. I’m waiting for the forensics results – DNA, fingerprints, ballistics – and I’m also waiting for more information from your research team. I’d like a place where this information can be gathered and organized.”

“You got it. I’ll try to have a working model for you by the time you get back.”

“Thanks, Ted. You’ve got my cell – feel free to call if you have any questions. I’ll turn my phone off during the service so you don’t need to worry about calling at an inopportune time. I’m going to go finish up my reports and get them to you tonight. We okay?”

“If I say what I’m thinking, you’ll just tell me to shut up. So I might as well keep my mouth shut and save you the trouble,” Ted said with a grin.

Lucinda smiled back at him and felt the pull of scar tissue on the damaged side of her face. She stuffed down her frustration over her limitations and took it out on the keyboard as she typed.

Seventeen

As she walked through her apartment door, Lucinda’s gray tabby Chester reminded her once again that dogs didn’t have a monopoly on making you feel missed and loved. She cooed at him as she replenished his dry food bowl and filled his saucer with a scoop of the canned tuna feast he loved.

She threw together a turkey and Havarti cheese sandwich for herself but left it on the counter as she walked to the window and stared out at the lazy James River flowing far below. She focused on its movement to find the serenity she needed to banish her anxiety about tomorrow’s trip and concentrate her mind on the case at hand.

Refreshed, she grabbed her sandwich, a legal pad and a pencil and curled up on the sofa to think through possible suspects and scenarios. Soon, Chester joined her, curling up in a ball between her leg and the sofa. She rested a hand on his back, feeling the comforting vibration of his contented purr.

She lifted her hand long enough to jot down: “1. Jason King.”.
Is that his real name? And is he avoiding my call or am I calling at the wrong times?
She wrote down, “Leave a message next time on both phones.”

There was no indication that anything was taken from the home, making the robbery-gone-bad scenario a non-starter. There was always the possibility of a love triangle. She wrote: “2. Jeanine’s boyfriend?” and “3. Parker’s girlfriend?”
That doesn’t cover all the possibilities, does it?
She scratched out “girlfriend” and “boyfriend” and replaced them both with “lover”.

Lucinda wondered who gained financially from the deaths. She knew the obvious answer was Freddy but, as snotty as he could be, she still could not see him wielding a chainsaw. In fact, as scrawny as he was, she doubted that he could lift the damn thing. There was always the chance that he had help, though. She added: “4. Freddy and unknown accomplice.”

She followed that on the list with “5. Victoria Whitehead.” Unless there was someone else specified, she’d be Freddy’s guardian and, in all likelihood, have control of his inheritance until he reached legal age. Under Victoria’s name she added, “Check with Sterling attorney about will.”

Revenge was another motive to consider. Judging by the crime scene, it looked as if any vengeance was directed at Parker. But why would the avenger want to conceal Parker’s identity? At number six, she jotted down Sterling Parker’s business rival, Rodney Conners, followed by “7. Unknown avenger.”

She knew she had to add Parker Sterling to her suspect list – not because she found Freddy’s story compelling but because it explained some of what she had found at the crime scene. If Parker did want to fake his death, he would have an interest in hiding the identity of the victim. On the other hand, although DNA might not be able to identify an unknown person, it would certainly sabotage that subterfuge. But Parker was an intelligent man, he would know that. Perhaps, for some reason, he only hoped to buy some time by making identification more difficult.

Then there was Jeanine’s body – carefully cleaned up and placed in her bed. Whoever killed her either had to care about her or feel remorse for killing her.
Was her death unintentional?
A bullet through her forehead screamed execution.
Was it a professional hit? A murder for hire? And why?

And what about the other victim? Did he die the same way? Who was killed first? And why?
It always came back to “why.” Lucinda knew the answer to this question wasn’t essential for the arrest and conviction of a perpetrator. Nonetheless, it dominated her thoughts – she wanted a motive, she needed a motive. Even if it could never be proven at trial, “why” pulled the puzzle pieces together, put the players in their proper places, made it all fit into a logical pattern. It might remain senseless on some level – the criminal mind often eludes rational thought – but still there was some sense of order, even if it was the product of a sick, disorganized mind.

Right now, though, she had no answer to that question. She would, however, have plenty of time to ruminate on it tomorrow on the road – three hours up, three hours back. She needed sleep tonight to make it through the drive and the family ordeal.

She got up and grabbed a glass of Australian Shiraz, popped a DVD from the third season of
24
in the player and settled back in her recliner. She could count on Jack Bauer’s intense, over-the-top adventures to take her away.

In the morning, Lucinda hit the road and she attempted to focus on the questions of the double homicide. She wanted to gnaw on them, force her way into the marrow of the crime where the answers awaited. But the closer she got to Albemarle County, the more difficult it became to steer away from her dread of the coming encounters and concentrate on the case.

She arrived at the funeral home in Charlottesville two hours before the service. She knew she could go out to her Uncle Hank’s farm and find the family gathered there. In fact, that’s probably what she should do but she had no stomach to face either her sister Maggie or her Aunt Connie before it was necessary. She’d love to wrap her arms around her brother right now, but that would have to wait.

She pulled into a parking space in the lot that afforded a clear line of sight to the front entrance and settled back in her seat. She allowed her thoughts to wander back to the day that she moved to the farm.

She’d visited Uncle Hank and Aunt Connie’s farm many times before but it was a lot different traveling out there for a picnic and horseshoes than it was moving out there to stay. On that day, it appeared lonely, forlorn and alien. She could still hear the gunshots ringing in her ears. Superimposed over everything were the slow-motion images of her mother falling after her dad fired the first shot, the vision of her father lying dead after the second shot. The smell of discharged weapons and the odor of death still permeated her nostrils, blocking out every other scent. Even out in the country, the air no longer smelled fresh.

Riding up their long driveway, Lucinda felt handcuffed by the recent past, imprisoned by the sins of her father. She sensed coolness in Aunt Connie’s welcome as if she felt unduly burdened by the arrival of her orphaned nieces and nephew. Uncle Hank, however, greeted them with an unqualified acceptance. They were his sister’s children and he loved them because he loved her.

Hank took a special interest in Lucinda, knowing that she had suffered the most trauma – she had seen her mother die, had found her father dead. He taught her to milk the cows, ride the horses, gather the eggs and drive the tractor. He filled the void left in Lucinda’s life by an often-absent, ever-angry father.

Lucinda spent hours by his side, sweating in the summer heat as they toiled in the fields, shivering in the snow as they tended the stock. It was a year of healing for the young motherless girl but it came at a price. Connie resented the time her husband spent with Lucinda. She looked at her niece and instead of seeing a wounded child in need of love and attention, she saw a rival for Hank’s affection.

She despised Lucinda for her flawless complexion, her long legs and her endless energy. Her resentment soon turned to loathing. And her loathing fed her suspicions. Lucinda often heard her aunt and uncle arguing behind their closed bedroom door. But she never knew she was the source of their conflict until one morning at breakfast.

Connie, holding a skillet in one hand and a spatula in the other, shoveled out mounds of scrambled eggs into every plate but one. Lucinda looked at the emptiness in front of her and over at her Uncle Hank. He furrowed his brow and shook his head. Connie returned with a plateful of sausage links and served them up to Uncle Hank, Maggie, Ricky and herself. But placed none on Lucinda’s plate. Connie returned again with biscuits, doling them out to everyone but her oldest niece.

Connie slid into her seat, sprinkled salt and pepper over her eggs and began to eat. Except for Ricky, who’d begun eating as soon as the eggs hit his plate, the rest of the family stared with confusion at Connie. She looked up, scanned the faces on the table and said, “Eat up, eat up before your breakfast turns cold. Nothin’ worse than cold eggs.”

“Connie,” Hank said, “you forgot to fill up Lucinda’s plate.”

“Forgot?” she said as she sunk her teeth into a biscuit. “I didn’t forget,” she added, spewing biscuit crumbs.

“You didn’t serve her anything, Connie.”

“I don’t serve tramps, Hank. Be glad I served you.”

“Connie …”

“There’s some leftovers on the stove. She can go in the kitchen and get what’s left if she wants. I’m not serving the slut.”

“C’mon, Connie, how many times do I …”

“It doesn’t matter how many times, Hank. I know what I know.”

A red-faced Hank pushed back his chair, rose to his feet and grabbed his John Deere cap from the rack. “C’mon, Lucinda. I reckon we oughta run into town for supplies.”

As they walked out the door, Connie taunted them. “Supplies? Is that what you call it now? Oh, yeah, Hank, go get your ‘supplies’ hauled, you bastard.”

Lucinda was mortified and confused. She thought she understood her aunt’s implications but they made no sense. She slid into the passenger’s seat of the old Ford pick-up. “Uncle Hank?”

“Forget about it, Lucinda. Your Aunt Connie’s going through the change. It gives her weird thoughts, sometimes. Don’t pay ’em no mind.”

“But Uncle Hank …”

“I’m not sure what we need in town – except for a good breakfast. We’ll get that and think of something we need to pick up at the feed and seed store while we eat.”

They didn’t speak through the twenty-mile drive. At breakfast, Hank talked about his hopes for that summer’s bounty from the crops the two of them planted in the spring. Lucinda made a couple of stabs at turning the conversation back to the morning’s conflict but Hank rebuffed every attempt.

Hank and Lucinda returned to the farm and tended to their chores until lunch time. When they entered the farmhouse for the midday meal, Lucinda gasped. A battered, stained, baby blue suitcase sat by the door – the same piece of luggage she’d used to move her clothes from her mother’s house to here a year earlier. Next to it was a paper grocery sack with a folded over top. Without looking inside, she knew everything she owned was in those two bags.

“You’re going to have to go back into town, Hank,” Connie ordered.

“Can we get a bite to eat, first?”

“You don’t have time, Hank. Lucinda’s bus leaves in less than an hour. But here,” she said, thrusting a wax paper-wrapped square at him, “I fixed up a bologna sandwich for the road.”

“Her bus to where?” Hank asked.

“She’s going to her grandmother’s house in
Greensboro
.”

“My mother’s house?” Hank asked.

“Yeah. The old biddy said she didn’t care that the girl was a tramp and a home-wrecker. She even had the gall to blame me. I hung up on her. But she’s taking the little bitch off our hands.”

“Connie, there’s been nothing improper going on between me and my niece. She’s family, Connie. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me that getting that slut out of my house won’t cure. You’d better get moving. She misses that bus, I’m going to a lawyer. And you know, since this was my Daddy’s farm, you’ll get tossed out on your ear if I file for divorce.”

Lucinda looked at her uncle who seemed to shrink before her eyes. She stepped toward her brother and sister. Maggie spun away from her and flounced out of the room. Ricky looked at her with tears on his face and bewilderment in his eyes. She crouched down and wrapped him in her arms, kissing his eyes, his cheeks, his forehead. “I love you, little brother.”

He clung to her as she tried to pull away. “No, no, don’t go.”

“I have to go, sweetie,” Lucinda said, as she uncurled his fingers from her shirt and stepped away. She bent down, grabbed the duct-taped handle of her suitcase in one hand, the paper sack in the other, and walked out the door. She breathed in the aroma of the farm – the air was filled with the scent of green, growing things, the earthy smells of fresh-turned soil and manure, and the musky tang of livestock. She listened to the distant cackle of the hens, the lowing of the cows, the snickering of the horses. Then, she stepped into the truck, slamming the door and leaving it all behind.

Standing in the doorway on his way out of the house, Hank turned and snapped, “You’ve gone too far this time, Connie.”

“Oh, no, Hank, you ain’t seen what too far looks like yet – just push me a little bit more and you’ll learn mighty fast.”

Hank glared at her, then snatched the sandwich from her hand. “You coulda made two,” he said and stomped out the door.

Hank started up the truck and unwrapped the wax paper. He handed a half of the sandwich to Lucinda, saying, “I’m sorry, girl.”

“Don’t worry about it, Uncle Hank. We all have to do what we have to do.”

Lucinda saw the sour face of her Aunt Connie come into view as the woman labored up the front steps of the funeral chapel. A small pleasure rippled through her at the sight of Connie dragging an oxygen cylinder behind her. Then she was ashamed. Connie was an old woman now and deserved her sympathy, not her scorn. She opened her car door, vowing to be compassionate and respectful as she girded herself with the armor she needed to guard against the pain.