Secrets to the Grave (13 page)

“Anne,” he growled, “I won’t have it.”

“And since when are you the boss of me?” she demanded to know.

“Since I’m your husband,” he said, soaping his chest and arms.

“Ha!” She held up her left hand to show him the diamond he had put on her finger not so many months ago. “This is a ring, not a collar and leash. I’m going.”

“I’m not taking you.”

“I’ll drive myself.”

“Not if I get to your car keys before you do.”

“I have a spare set hidden.”

“I don’t. I’ll take my keys and your car.”

Anne narrowed her eyes in frustration. “Why are you being such an ass?”

“I’m protecting you, damn it,” he said. “Could you cooperate, please?”

“Protecting me from what? A four-year-old child who must be scared to death?”

“She’s a witness to a murder.”

“And a victim herself,” Anne pointed out, hastily running a soapy washcloth over herself. “She’s been traumatized. She’s lost her mother. Has anyone found a relative?”

“No,” he said, turning his back to her to rinse the front of him off.

“She has no one.”

“She’ll have someone from Child Services.”

“Seriously?” she said, ducking in front of him to rinse herself off. “You think Child Services should foster out a witness to a murder?”

“Well, I sure as hell don’t think you should do it.”

“I’m only going to see if I can help the little girl through this.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, unimpressed. “Like you were just going to see if you couldn’t help Dennis Farman a little, and now you’re his fucking guardian ad litem?”

“Don’t you curse at me!” Anne said, leaning up toward him, as if she could hope to make herself big enough to intimidate him.

He leaned down over her, water dripping off his nose and mustache. “I’m going to lock you in a closet in a minute.”

Now truly angry, Anne got out of the shower, grabbed a towel and did a half-assed job of drying herself off. The hell if he was going to tell her what she could and couldn’t do. And how dare he throw Dennis Farman up in her face? She was only trying to do something good.

She could see him scowling at her via the wall-to-wall mirror over the long vanity.

“Anne,” he said, climbing out of the shower and reaching for her arm.

Anne twisted out of his reach and went to her closet to find some clothes to pull on. Underwear, a pair of acid-washed jeans, and a big, slouchy black sweater that wanted to fall off one shoulder. Good enough. She pulled on an old pair of once-white Keds and headed for the door.

“Anne,” Vince said again, stepping in front of her, still naked, water droplets glistening in his chest hair.

She looked to the left of his head and past his shoulder, waiting impatiently for him to say what he had to say, then get out of her way.

“Sweetheart,” he said, softening his tone. “You’ve been through so much in the past year. You’re still struggling with it. I don’t want you getting involved in something that’s going to add to your stress level—and mine,” he admitted.

He had a good point. He was only trying to protect her, which was very sweet and chivalrous. Still, now her pride was involved, and her feminist tendencies were offended. She wasn’t going to let Tony Mendez or Cal Dixon or anyone else think that she had to have her husband’s permission to do anything. It was 1986, for God’s sake, not 1956.

“I’m going,” she declared.

Hands jammed at his waist, Vince heaved a big sigh of absolute frustration. Muscles worked at the back of jaw as if he were trying to choke something down.

“Let me get some clothes on,” he said at last. “I’m driving.”

 

 

Mercy General was a jewel of a small hospital. One of the benefits of being located in an affluent, educated community was the generosity of its residents.

There was no shortage of bequests and contributions rolling in to fund new wings, new equipment, renovations. Mercy General had up-to-date, state-of-the-art everything and attracted top-notch staff from doctors and nurses to administrators.

Haley Fordham lay in a bed in the ICU, a unit Vince and everyone else involved in the See-No-Evil case had come to know well during the time Karly Vickers had been there. The ambient lighting was soft, the walls painted a honey amber color. The feeling was one of being cocooned in glowing warmth. The rooms were fronted by glass so all patients were visible to the staff at the central desk.

But they heard Marissa Fordham’s daughter before they saw her. As Vince and Anne stepped off the elevator, they were greeted by the piercing shriek of a terrified small child.

Anne tensed instantly. Vince felt her back go rigid beneath his hand as they headed toward the source of the screaming.

Mendez came to meet them, looking grim.

“What’s going on?” Vince asked.

“She woke up screaming and hasn’t stopped. The doctor says it could be a sign of brain damage from being asphyxiated.”

“Or she could be terrified,” Anne said, upset. “Imagine being four years old and waking up in this place, hooked to machines, surrounded by strangers. Poor little thing!”

“Yeah,” Mendez agreed. “There’s that. Thanks for coming, Anne.”

“Of course I would come,” she said, cutting Vince a look. “I’m happy to help. Can I go in the room?”

“I’ll introduce you to the doctor and Mrs. Bordain,” Mendez said, taking her gently by the elbow.

“Mrs. Bordain, Marissa Fordham’s sponsor?” Vince asked, separating his protégé from his wife.

“Yes,” Mendez said, rolling his eyes as he raised his hands clear of Anne. “Bill and I went to talk to her and tell her the news. She demanded we bring her here to see Haley. She’s the girl’s scary godmother or something. The kid woke up and started screaming, but Mrs. Bordain is the closest thing we’ve got to a relative so far.”

“She’s not exactly having a calming effect,” Vince said dryly. Milo Bordain, early- to mid-fifties, tall, blond, dressed to the nines, stood well back from the bed, horrified, one hand pressed to her chest as if to hold her heart in.

Mendez shrugged. “The woman doesn’t know what to do. Like I said: The doc thinks the screaming could be a sign of brain damage. We know the girl was strangled unconscious. Who knows how long her brain was deprived of oxygen.”

“Did you call Child Services?”

“Yeah,” Mendez said, carefully avoiding Vince’s stare. “No sign of them.”

“Maybe you should call again,” he said pointedly.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Anne muttered. She pushed past them both and went into the room.

Vince poked Mendez in the chest with a finger, pissed off. “I don’t want her involved in this.”

Mendez shrugged, feigning innocence. “Then why did you bring her?”

“I ought to kick your ass, Junior.”

“Yeah, maybe Bill will hold your walker for you while you try that, Old Man.”

“Ha-ha. You’re a laugh riot,” Vince said sarcastically. He glanced into the room to see his wife reaching out a hand to Haley Fordham. “You’re not the one holding her after the nightmares,” he said quietly.

Mendez had the grace to look contrite. “Jeez, I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that. She seems okay.”

“She’s not.”

“I’ll call Child Services.”

“You do that.”

Mendez went in search of a phone.

Vince stared into the little girl’s room, thinking it was already too late.

Anne stood close to the bed, her arms around the sobbing child clinging to her for dear life.

21

Anne walked into the hospital room, Haley Fordham’s screams piercing her eardrums. She went straight to the doctor standing at the foot of the bed, a small dark-haired man with a close-cropped beard. He was making notes in the chart, strangely calm, considering the state the child was in.

“Anne Leone,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m a court-appointed special advocate. Detective Mendez asked me to come.”

That sounded very official, at least, she thought, even though there was nothing official about it. They were circumventing protocol in about eight different ways. There was no one from Child Services present. Anne had not been assigned to Haley Fordham’s case. She hadn’t spoken to her supervisor to apprise her of the situation. She didn’t know if relatives had been notified. The list went on. But in her heart her only concern was for the terrified child in the bed.

“Dr. Silver,” he said, clipping his pen to the chart and shaking her hand.

“Why are you letting her scream like this?” she asked. “Isn’t there something you can give her to help her calm down?”

“She’s just coming out of a coma. She hasn’t responded to anyone. It’s as if we aren’t here. This sometimes happens with brain injury patients,” he explained. “She probably doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.”

Anne looked from the doctor to the child and back. “I’m sorry,” she said calmly. “You’re an idiot.”

She didn’t bother to care that Dr. Silver was offended. She didn’t bother to introduce herself to the well-dressed older woman standing frozen in shock along the wall. She went alongside the bed to the head of it, where Haley Fordham was curled into a ball, shrieking.

“Haley?” she said softly, reaching her hand out to the little girl. “Haley, sweetheart, you’re all right. I know you’re scared. You don’t need to be afraid, honey. We’re all here to help you.”

Still screaming, the child looked up at her. Her eyes were entirely bloodred, petechial hemorrhages filling the whites of her eyes around the dark iris and pupils. It was a result of the strangulation, but even knowing that, Anne was startled at the sight.

“It’s okay,” Anne murmured, brushing the girl’s damp dark curls back from her forehead. “It’s okay, Haley. You’re not alone. I’m here for you.”

The screams subsided as the little girl looked up at her. Her breath caught and hiccupped and stuttered in her throat. She was trembling, dressed only in a flimsy hospital gown. White tape held an IV catheter in place in her tiny arm.

The bruises on her throat were purple. Anne felt her own throat tighten. She knew exactly how it felt to be choked, to look up into the face of the person trying to take her life away from her. Had Haley known the person doing that to her? How confused and terrified she must have been.

Her mother had to have been dead by then. No mother would have stood by and allowed someone to harm her child this way, no matter how dire the circumstances. Haley had been all alone with her killer.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she whispered, continuing to stroke the girl’s hair. “I’m so sorry.”

Slowly Haley came up on her knees and reached her arms out. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. She tried again, croaking out a scratchy sound.

“I can’t hear you, honey,” Anne said, bending down close.

Haley wrapped her arms around Anne’s neck and the word came out in a whisper as the tears began again.

“Mommy.”

Anne’s heart broke for the little girl. She held her close and rubbed her back and kissed the top of her head, offering as much comfort as she could.

Finally the woman draped in Gucci and reeking of Chanel moved forward.

“Thank God someone has a magic touch,” she said softly. “I had no idea what to do. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“She’s terrified,” Anne said, irritated that neither this woman nor the doctor seemed to have been able to figure out something so simple.

“She wouldn’t even look at us,” Bordain said. “It was like she was in her own world.”

In her own world where she was watching her mother be butchered and was helpless to escape the killer, Anne thought.

“Did you know Marissa?”

Anne glanced at her. “No. I never met her.”

“But Haley went to you,” the woman said, bemused.

Milo Bordain, Anne realized, doyenne of Oak Knoll society. Anne had seen her picture in the paper many times—photographs from various charity fund-raisers and the summer music festival. She was a tall, handsome woman in her fifties. Her features were just a couple of steps this side of masculine, but perfectly made up. Marissa Fordham’s sponsor, Vince had said.

A woman who had probably spent time with Haley—at least in proximity to her. But not quality time, Anne guessed. She had not one hair out of place, but scraped back against her skull and pulled into a flawless, tight chignon at the base of her skull. She wore a beautifully patterned silk scarf draped artfully around her broad shoulders over the top of her camel-hair blazer, pinned in place with a jewel-encrusted brooch. Chocolate brown kid gloves and a pair of perfectly pressed black slacks completed the picture.

“Mommy!” Haley wailed, burrowing her face into Anne’s shoulder.

Anne rocked her and shushed her, and stroked her hair.

“I don’t understand,” Bordain said, hurt. “I’ve known Haley since she was a baby. She’s like a granddaughter to me. It was like she didn’t even recognize me.”

Haley’s cries were building toward another crescendo.

Anne cut the woman a look. “If you don’t mind,” she said. “I’m a little busy here.”

Offended, Milo Bordain drew herself up to her full height—she had to be six feet tall, if not a little more—and looked down her patrician nose at Anne.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes,” Anne replied. “I just don’t care. This isn’t about you.”

Bordain left the room without another word. Anne watched her through the glass wall as she marched up to Cal Dixon and Vince to file her grievance.

Later, Anne thought, she might feel a little guilty for being rude to the woman. But for now, she cared only about the child in her arms.

22

It was well past midnight before Mendez climbed into his own car and drove out of the sheriff’s office parking lot. He and Hicks had hung around the ICU, hoping for a chance to have Haley Fordham make all their lives easy by simply telling them who had attacked her and killed her mother. No such luck. His clever call to bring Anne in had backfired on him in more ways than one.