Never Alone (7 page)

“Momma?” The door creaked as she pushed it open. The splatter of red against the white wall looked like a painting by Pollock, but it was no canvas. Blood everywhere.

And that's how she would forever remember the day before her twelfth birthday.

_____

“That girl is going to be the death of me,” Rose blurted out.

Megan rubbed her forehead as if doing so would wipe the
memory away. “What girl, Momma?” She rolled Rose's cuffs back down, covering her wrists.

“That girl is going to be the death of
me
,” she repeated.

“I heard what you said, Momma—
what
girl is going to be the death of you?” She wanted to kick herself for asking. She knew what the answer was. “Now would be a good time to say Marcie.”

An older man pushing a newspaper/magazine cart leaned his head into Rose's room before passing by.

“Good morning.” The man's dentures clicked as he spoke. He had a tall frame and looked far too thin for the brown button-down sweater he wore.

“Hi,” Megan said, answering on auto-pilot.

“My name's Howard,” he said.

“How are you, Howard?”

“Oh, I'm fine. They keep me busy around here.”

Howard must have been what they called cash-and-carry in
adult-care facilities. If he had enough money, Megan knew, the
care facility would allow a twenty-five-year-old to live there. The
nurses yesterday had said Howard had days of forgetfulness but nothing that couldn't be coped with living at home. His sons had more money than time, so they used the excuse that their father was more comfortable at the nursing facility than he would be living with them. Howard was a nice man, apparently, but you needed to always check your change when you bought a newspaper or magazine. His math wasn't what it used to be, or so the nurses had told Megan.

“Are you Rose's daughter?” he asked. He smoothed his sweater over the plaid shirt underneath.

“Yes, I'm Megan McGinn,” Megan said, looking back at her mother.

“Your mom is a lovely lady. I hope it's okay. I read to her last night. The first night can be rough. I thought it might help.”

Megan smiled. “I think it did. The nurses said she did well.”

“Your dad was a lucky man, I have to say.”

“Yes, he was. Thank you, Howard.” Megan smiled at the
thought of her father.

“Can I interest you in a paper?”

“Sure.”

“Here you go, and take one of these old magazines. You can have a copy of
The Catholic Times
, too. It's free.” He gave her the morning paper along with a three-month-old
Ladies' Home Journal
and
The
Catholic Times
.

Megan paid him and then he continued down the hall on his paper route. She began with the morning paper, having absolutely no use for the
Ladies' Home Journal
and no interest in
The Catholic Times
. She sat down on her mother's bed, scanning the news as Rose looked out the window, seemingly content for now. Shannon's murder was, of course, on the front page. There was a small picture of Shannon with the words
girl murdered: upper east side
in big black letters. She was halfway through the article when her cell phone rang.

“McGinn.”

“Hey, it's Nappa. Meet you on Park Avenue and Twenty-Eighth Street in about twenty-five minutes?”

Megan checked her watch and realized she had stayed longer than she'd planned. “Make it thirty-five minutes.” Megan hung up without saying goodbye, stuffing the newspapers into her purse.

ten

Megan met Nappa on
Park Avenue South outside the 28
th
Street subway station. She quickly buttoned the front of her jacket when she emerged from the subway. The wind was much more blustery than it had been earlier in the morning.

Nappa was buying coffees at a deli cart on the corner, his suit jacket lapels turned up to cover the nape of his neck.

“Hey, Nappa, that look went out in the eighties.”

He laughed and handed her the cup of coffee. The blue paper cup with gold Greek lettering reading
We Are Happy To Serve You
was a warm welcome to her cold hands.

“I should have worn a real coat—I wasn't thinking when I left my apartment.”

“Thanks for the coffee.” They walked toward Madison Avenue. “Sorry I'm late. I made a quick run over to see my mom.”

“She okay?”

“Everything's fine. I just wanted to drop off a few things for her.” Megan quickly changed the subject. “So we're talking to”—she pulled out her small black Moleskin notepad—“Katelyn Moore?”

“Mrs. McAllister said they were the closest out of all of her friends.”

“This is the girlfriend from college?”

“Roommate. Hey, did you get Palumbo's message this morning?” he asked.

“Yeah. They went through the whole building and street. I can't believe no one saw or heard anything.”

“Nothing. The neighbors all said the same thing—she was a sweet girl, didn't cause any trouble.”

“And the super, Mr. Mendoza?”

“Nothing. Rasmussen and Palumbo are going over to the college this morning to speak with her professors and classmates.”

“Phone records?”

“Got them. The vic called her parents a few times, ordered food, updated the roaming capabilities on her cell.”

“Incoming calls?”

“Four. One from her parents' landline, two came in over a number that doesn't have an account.”

“Disposable phone.”

Nappa nodded.

“The fourth?”

“You.” Megan was reminded she'd called Shannon's cell after leaving Dr. Max's office when the McAllisters identified their daughter's body.

“The vic's cell account is still active, but there's zero activity, and we're still waiting on the clinic.”

A dark silence loomed over both detectives. The cell phone
wasn't stuck in a cushion of a couch or left in a jacket pocket. They hoped but knew better. These stupid lines of communication have become third arms to our existence: too much information, too easily retrieved, too easily lost, and never too far away.

“I've been going through the vic's datebook. It's a total mess. There are no names or addresses. And she writes initials for I don't know what—meetings? Dates?” Nappa pulled the book out of his coat pocket. “Take a look.”

Megan thumbed through the pages. “This doesn't help at all.
Why even have a calendar or an address book if you're not going to write in it?” She handed it back to Nappa.

They walked in silence, each wondering where this case was going, how it would end. Homicide detectives came from a place of speculation mixed with a child's hope. A string as thin as the chance
the case would end in a happy, shiny place, or at the very least a place filled with justice.
An odd word,
Megan thought:
justice
.
There's an aftermath of inequity when that word is heard; a sense of one searching to find the strength to overcome tragedy, a cruelty, a repression, discrimination, a sin. Megan had witnessed most of these. Few threads remained to cling to, yet she, in a deep and private place, tried.

_____

Megan was using the coffee more as a hand warmer and less as a caffeine jolt as they walked over to Madison Avenue. “I was thinking I'd like to stop by the crime scene again and take a better look. I want to do another walk-through of her apartment.”

“Sounds good,” Nappa responded as they entered Katelyn
Moore's building.

The pale stone exterior sandwiched between two businesses made the Madison Avenue building seem more commercial than residential. A doorman standing in the alcove to the right of the steps allowed them into the building. Recessed lighting highlighted the splashes of jade in the black marbled tile, but was barely enough to illuminate the narrow hallway to the only elevator in the building. Lemon-scented ammonia filled the air as the building's porter pushed a mop back and forth at the end of the hall.

They boarded the elevator and Megan pressed for the fifth floor. Nappa repeated the action as the doors closed.

“I just pressed it. Why do you
always
do that?”

“Do what?”

“Press the elevator button after I've already pushed it? Jesus Christ.”

“I don't know. It's just a habit. Whatever.”

“It's not like pressing it a second time is going to get us there any faster. It's not like me pressing the button had a neutral effect on the mechanics of the elevator system and you suddenly had the golden touch. It's not like the stupid light to the fifth floor wasn't already lit.”

They both stood, arms folded, staring forward.

“Do you want us both to ring the doorbell, too?”

“I should have taken the stairs,” Nappa said, rubbing his fore
head.

Megan exited the elevator first and rang the doorbell, daring Nappa with her eyes to ring it again. He hung back about five feet behind her. Then Katelyn Moore answered the door, tissues in hand. Her green eyes were bloodshot and swollen. Her resemblance to Shannon was startling. They shared similar height, body type, coloring. Both wore their hair parted on the same side.

“Katelyn Moore? I'm Detective McGinn, and this is my partner, Detective Nappa.”

“Yes, please come in. Call me Kate.” She fought back tears, attempting the usual social graces. Kate motioned for them to go into the living room. “Is there anything I can get you? Coffee?”

Both held up their paper cups, signaling they were taken care
of.

She gave a meek smile. “Right. I'm sorry. I'm a little foggy this morning. It's been a long night since I got the news about Shannon.”

“That's to be expected,” Megan said.

Megan took a look around the exceptionally sparse apartment. Boxes lined the floor leading to the sofa, and a bundle of Bubble Wrap lay in the corner. The coffee table had the protective cardboard around the corners. Three large garment boxes were on one side of the room.

“I'm sorry it's such a mess. Please have a seat.” Kate moved newspapers and moved boxes off the couch. She positioned herself on one of the boxes to face them.

“In or out?” Nappa asked.

“Just moved in. We haven't gotten a chance to unpack yet. My husband's been traveling for work, and I've just started a new job, so it's been a little hectic. And, well, the obvious.”

“We don't want to take up a lot of your time,” he said. “We just have a few questions for you.”

Megan glanced over at a picture frame placed on one of the unopened boxes next to the sofa. It was obvious who was in the picture: Shannon and Kate were sitting on a beach holding tropical drinks, mugging for the camera. The photo gave away more than just best friends beaching it on holiday.

“The two of you looked a lot alike.” Megan placed the frame back. “You must have been mistaken for sisters all the time.” She noticed something else in the photo besides their resemblance.

“Yeah, we got that a lot.” Kate picked up the photo, losing herself in the memory of the day it was taken. “This was a few months ago. We went away for a long weekend, one of those last-minute deals off the Internet. God, did we have a great time. We were planning another trip next month.” Her words were cut short between the tears streaming down her cheeks. “I'm sorry, I just can't believe this. I can't believe this has happened.” She began patting her eyes with the crumpled tissues.

“I know this is hard for you, but we need to ask you some questions.” Megan paused for her to gain her composure. “When was the last time you spoke to or saw Shannon?”

She cleared her throat. “The last time I spoke with Shannon was four days ago. She called before one of her clients came into the center for a session.”

“Clients?” Nappa asked.

“Her patients at the center. She technically doesn't have her master's in social work yet, so she refers to them as her clients.
Referred
to them as clients.”

“What did the two of you talk about?” Megan asked.

“It was brief, nothing unusual. We were just making plans to get together again. We meet up a few times a month for sushi.”

“Did she mention anything out of the ordinary?” Nappa asked.

“Like what?”

“Have any of her clients been giving her a hard time? Was there anyone harassing her in any way that you knew of ? Not just the people she counseled, but anyone at work?”

Katelyn looked confused. “Harassing her? No, not that I know of, I mean, I know she doesn't deal with the most
sound
individuals, but there wasn't anyone threatening her. They depended on her.”

“What type of patients—sorry, clients—was she working with?” Megan asked.

“Shannon worked with mentally and emotionally challenged prisoners. They're a part of a work program where they leave during the day and return to the prison at night. That's all I really know about it.”

Megan was disgusted how the system leaned toward rehabilitation for people who were repeat offenders. Teenagers had a chance, but almost all the others, right or wrong, were lifers. She'd seen too much to view it in any other light. However, as soon as they heard the words “mentally and emotionally challenged prisoners,” Megan and Nappa shared a very concerned look.

“She loved the people she worked with. She spent a lot of time with them.”

They both knew that Shannon's work life was definitely an avenue of interest. For right now, they needed to find out more about her personal life.

“What about men in her life? Her parents said she wasn't dating. Do you know if she was seeing anyone?” Nappa asked.

“I don't understand. Why are you asking about boyfriends? I thought this was a break-in. Her father told me she came home when her place was being robbed.” She looked back and forth at Megan and Nappa. “Isn't that what happened?”

Nappa chose his words carefully. “At this point we're looking at every angle. Right now we're focusing on the possibility this was someone Ms. McAllister knew.”

“That's absurd. I don't believe that. She didn't have any enemies.”

“Was she seeing anyone?” Megan asked. “Her mother was adamant that she wasn't.”

Katelyn stammered briefly, “She did that speed-dating thing a few times. But that was ages ago.”

Megan didn't hide her ignorance. “Speed dating?”

Kate sighed at the fact she was about to have to explain the process. “You have ten minutes to interview one another and then you move to the next table. It's kind of a way to see if there's interest on either part. It's not a big deal. But it's definitely not something her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Westport, Connecticut, would approve of.”

“Where was this?” asked Nappa.

“She did it a few times, once in Manhattan and once in Brooklyn. We have a friend who lives there, so Shannon went with her.”

“Did anything come of it?” Megan asked.

“I think she went out on a date with one guy—it was a while ago, maybe a year—but nothing came of it. Like I said, she wasn't the type to sleep around.”

“Anyone else, anyone at all?” Nappa asked.

“Um, I love Shannon's parents, but, well, they didn't know … um … everything she did. Well, certainly not all parts of her, um, social life.”

They could tell Kate was stalling.

“What do you mean, all parts of her social life?” Nappa asked.

“I mean, well …”

Megan could see how uncomfortable Kate was getting, not
looking them straight in the eye, rubbing her hands. Exposing your best friend's secrets can bring that out in a woman. Then it hit her.

Megan sighed. “He's married.”

Kate lowered her head, rubbing her temples. “One of her professors.”

Megan reminded herself once again that Lieutenant Walker was often right. There are selective things daughters share with their mothers.

“I can't remember his exact name, Bower or Brower, something like that. She was working on a research project with him. She was into him, bought the whole ‘miserable in his marriage, loves his wife but not in love with her' bullshit routine. I think he was playing her.” Katelyn's tone turned from sad to bitter.

“Playing her?”

“Tall, dark, handsome type.” She looked over at Nappa. “No offense.”

He cocked his head. “None taken.”

“He had a lot of young female students fawning over him, a real rock-star type. At least that's what Shannon said.”

“Did Shannon fawn over him like his other students?” Megan asked.

Kate cackled at the notion. “Shannon? No. Shannon wasn't the fawning type.” They didn't interrupt Kate. She was telling them things about Shannon only her best girlfriends knew. “Listen, you need to know she wasn't that
type
of girl. Shannon didn't go out with married men. This was the first married guy—well, the
only
married guy—she ever went out with. It wasn't her style at all. She didn't search him out. If anything, she was turned off by him at first.”