Never Alone (16 page)

“Unless the killer removed it before doing everything else he did to her.”

“I'm going to call Palumbo and have him get McAllister's gynecologist's records,” Megan said.

“Why, how will that help?”

“The memorial in
The Catholic Times.
Sewing her snatch up. Maybe it's some holy thing. Catholics are supposed to be anti-birth control.”

“I'm not sure where you're going with it, but at least you've
told me
what your plans are.”

Megan glanced over. “Done and dusted, Nappa. Move on.”

It should have been a one-hour drive from Manhattan to the McAllisters' home, but the delay leaving the city and construction
on the highway pushed their arrival in Westport closer to lunch
time.

Bold autumn colors highlighted the wooded road leading into town. The surroundings quickly changed when they drove down the main street in Westport. A chauffeured limo pulled up next to the NYPD department's seven-year-old Toyota Camry. Cars such as Jaguars, Bentleys, and Aston Martins were parked at the street meters. Quaint shops that could go head-to-head with any store on
Madison or Park Avenue occupied the main street. The bistros
were closer to five-star dining in New York, despite referred to as
charming luncheonettes
in the small Connecticut town.

“This is so Norman Rockwell,” Megan said.

“Yeah, on antidepressants and Viagra.”

“Ouch. What's wrong, Nappa? Are you feeling insecure driving the Camry amongst these swanky automobiles?”

“Next time we're getting a nicer car. Maybe something confiscated from a drug dealer.”

“On our department's budget, we're lucky we aren't coming up here on mopeds.”

A horseshoe-shaped driveway led up to the McAllisters' Medi
terranean-style home. It was hidden behind weeping willows and overgrown spruce trees on a hill. The outside of the house looked as though it had been deserted. Life had stopped for the McAllisters. Autumn leaves raked into piles sat in pockets overshadowing the lawn, each with a brown bag next to it, while newspapers in clear plastic bags multiplied at the bottom of the driveway.

They both got out of the car, taking in the scent of a wood-burning fireplace. “You don't find a smell like this often on the Upper East Side,” Nappa said.

“Nope.” Megan was hesitant to say anything more. The atmosphere was intensely quiet. She guessed the inside of the McAllister home wasn't much different.

A short white gate opened into the backyard of the house.
They could see Mrs. McAllister was seated at a table, alone and obviously unaware of her visitors. Nappa rapped on the gate, but it went unnoticed, so they let themselves in.

The backyard patio had been ignored lately as much as the
front yard. In the corner was a grill the size of a Jacuzzi. It was closed and had been bombarded by fallen autumn leaves. The swimming pool faced a similar fate. The water was dark, nearing a moss green color. Leaves and bits of shrubbery floated on the surface. Amazing what just a few days' neglect could do.

Shannon's mother sat at a white iron table, staring into a large black leather book. She held it with reverence as she slowly moved her hands over each page.

Megan felt she was intruding on a private moment. “Mrs.
McAllister?”

Shannon's mother jolted in Megan's direction, trying to hold back her surprise. “Detectives, hello. I'm sorry, I didn't hear you drive up.” She placed the photo album on the table and adjusted the tan wrap draped around her shoulders.

They couldn't help but notice the setting on the table: two
glasses of wine poured—only one had been drunk from—and a small plate of hors d'oeuvres in the middle. The tray held an arrangement of cheese, crackers, Greek olives, and marinated red peppers accompanied by a French baguette; the food looked as though it hadn't been touched.

“We're sorry to interrupt,” Nappa offered.

“No, no, not at all.” She looked up at the detectives, who were obviously curious, and then back down to the table. “Oh, this? I know it's silly without Shannon here. This was our bonding time together. She'd come home for a visit and we'd have an outdoor lunch together. More like a gossip session for just the girls. It became a tradition for us whenever she was able to make it home for a weekend.”

“I don't think it's silly at all,” Megan assured her.

“Please have a seat.”

Nappa pointed toward the photo album. “May I?”

“Of course, that's just one of the many family albums we have. This is mainly of Shannon when she was a baby.”

Nappa glanced through it. Pictures of Shannon spanned from the first few hours of her life to when she appeared to be three or four years old. Shannon's first bath, first steps, first words, all dated under each photograph in the album.

“Is Mr. McAllister here as well?” Megan asked.

“Yes, John is inside. It's getting a bit chilly out here. We should probably go in.”

“It might be easier to speak with the both of you at the same time.” Nappa closed the photo album.

They followed Mrs. McAllister through a set of French doors into the main living room. The room, painted a cool blue, had an
airy feel to it. White columned bookshelves lined much of the
room, while the blond wooden floors were covered with earth-toned area rugs.

Instead of the countless flower arrangements that were dispersed throughout the room, Megan smelled cigarettes. John, Shannon's father, sat chain-smoking as the phone rang continually.

“John? John? Are you going to get that?” Mrs. McAllister excused herself. “I'll be back in just a moment.”

Mr. McAllister sat in a chair, drink in hand, staring aimlessly into the fireplace. He looked as though he'd aged ten years since Megan and Nappa had met him in the morgue. His drink was full and the look on his face was hard, a man consumed with more anger than sorrow. His tall frame slouched to one side. He swirled the glass, the ice cubes clanking against whatever alcohol it was;
Megan assumed it was vodka and not mineral water, given the
flushed look on his face. Crackling noises from the fire filled the si
lence.

“Mr. McAllister?” Nappa needed to say it twice to get his atten
tion.

John McAllister looked up, surprised by their presence. “I'm sorry, Detectives, I didn't hear you come in. Please take a seat. Can I fix you a drink?” He got up to refresh his own, which was already three-quarters full.

They both declined a midday cocktail.

“So, what brings you all the way up to Westport from Manhattan?” Mr. McAllister asked.

Mrs. McAllister had returned to the living room while her husband was pouring himself a second round—or possibly a third, it was hard to tell.

“John, I told you they were coming.”

He looked quizzically at her. “I don't remember.”

She glanced down at his drink before she commented, “I wonder why.”

Mr. McAllister answered without embarrassment or hesitation. “It's after twelve o'clock somewhere, MaryEllen.”

Megan and Nappa were slightly uncomfortable by the ex
change, so they got straight to the point.

“Mrs. McAllister­—”

She interrupted, “Excuse me, but, Detectives, you were awfully vague in your phone call regarding your visit.” She glanced around them. “You're not returning Shannon's laptop, obviously.”

“No ma'am. I expect to get that back to you within another week, if not sooner,” Megan answered.

“Then you must have some information?”

“Mrs. McAllister, I know this is hard for you, but I need you to take another look at the gold ring our medical examiner found. Could she have been wearing it the last time you saw Shannon? It's very subtle, maybe you could have missed it?”

This was one of the reasons the detectives took the drive out to Westport, but they felt the McAllister's deserved the other information in person.

“Absolutely not. The last time I saw her—”

Mr. McAllister interrupted, “The last time
we
saw her.”

“The last time
we
saw her was last week when she came up to the house for a few days to get out of the city and relax. She wasn't wearing this. She didn't like gold, or, as I said before, long necklaces or turtlenecks for that matter. She said she always felt choked by them.”

The irony of that statement was obvious.

“Jesus Christ, MaryEllen! Did you need to say it that way?”

“It's the truth, John. You know she never liked anything tight around her neck: necklaces, sweaters. She never wore scarves.”

He lit another cigarette and shook his head in disgust, then guzzled half his drink.

“And this I know I've never seen before.” Mrs. McAllister
handed Megan back the ring, never taking even a hint of a glance at it. She suddenly sounded drained as she said, “I'm sure.”

Mr. McAllister took the other route, his speech slurred slightly, his tone demanding. “What do you have on our daughter's case?” He turned to look up at them. “Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea the powerful friends I have? And who in the fuck leaked that shit out about my baby girl?”

“John!” Mrs. McAllister was embarrassed by her husband's
display. “I'm sorry, Detectives.”

They nodded in full understanding of his anger. “We've been talking to her friends and coworkers, but we haven't had any strong leads as of yet,” Nappa answered. “And we're tracking down the source of the leak.”

“I know we asked you this before, but do you know if Shannon was dating anyone over the last few months or had a close male friend perhaps?” Megan asked.

Without hesitation Mrs. McAllister answered, “No, she wasn't seeing anyone romantically. I would have known. She did have a few male friends, strictly platonic.”

“Did she ever mention a Professor Bauer to you?” Megan asked.

“A few times. She was working on a project with him. I think it lasted a few months. The project, I mean; she wasn't seeing him or anything like that.”

Megan and Nappa glanced at each other, but neither spoke.

Mr. McAllister was a smart man and not in the kind of denial Mrs. McAllister was in. “Why do you ask about this Professor Bauer? Is there something you want to tell us? Do you know something we don't?”

Megan and Nappa looked at each other again. Mr. McAllister repeated the question.

“Well, sir, it seems that Shannon may have been having a relationship with Professor Bauer,” Nappa said.

“What do you mean, a
relationship
?” Mrs. McAllister said.

“They were … dating,” Megan added, in as delicate a manner as she could. Megan knew the calm was over, and the storm was about to hit.

“Impossible!” Mrs. McAllister pointed at her chest. “Shannon would have shared that with me. I don't believe that.”

Mr. McAllister took the lead as the reasonable one in the conversation. “So, is this gentleman a suspect? Is that what you're telling us?”

“Not at this time, sir. He has an alibi,” Megan answered.

Mrs. McAllister erupted, “Then why bring him up? Why tell us
this?”

“We wondered if there could have been anyone, anyone else, that Shannon may have mentioned that perhaps you may have thought of as platonic but …”

“But wasn't?” Mr. McAllister added.

“Yes sir,” Nappa said.

Mr. McAllister put a hand on his wife's shoulder. “It doesn't mean the two of you weren't close, MaryEllen. You had the closest
mother-daughter relationship I've ever seen. Remember how
much you tried to keep from your mother when we were dating?” he said in as comforting a way as possible.

She shook her head in agreement and wiped away her tears. “There was one boy over the summer that she got to be good friends with. His name was Matt. She spoke of him a lot. They worked at Camp Sparta together. I think I still have the camp's contact sheet in the office. I'll look for it.”

Mr. McAllister watched his wife leave the living room in search of the information. She looked broken by the news that her only child hadn't shared every intimate detail with her. “Detectives, do either of you have children?” he asked.

They both answered no.

For the first time since they'd met Mr. McAllister, he shared a small smile. “It's the greatest day of your life. This little being enters your world and turns it completely upside down. You love every minute of it, but at the same time you wonder if you'll ever get through the diaper changes, the late-night feedings, the birthday parties, the chicken pox, the first crush.” Shannon's father seemed much more lucid now as he recounted the early years with his daughter. “All you can think about is what an awesome responsi
bility it is to care for this helpless being. Then, one day, and it hap
pens almost overnight, she's riding her bike without training wheels, and before you know it, you're teaching her how to drive a car. She's become a young woman, and you begin to breathe a little easier. You think, great, we made it—it's smooth sailing from here
on out. We did our job and now she can go out and make a life for
herself. Then you start thinking and waiting for all the paybacks for all your hard work: walking her down the aisle on her wedding, the day she makes you a grandparent. It all seems to fall into place. It's the natural order of things.” He paused and stared into the fireplace. The flames jumped and spewed almost in reaction to his emotion. “Then one morning the phone rings and you're given news your darkest nightmare could never have predicted. One sentence, of one phone call, and all those dreams you had for your child, all those moments you were looking forward to—they're gone. Forever. And they're gone because of the one thing you couldn't do.”