What Laurel Sees: a love story (A Redeeming Romance Mystery) (17 page)

How she would tell Grace about her mother’s disappearance, Shana didn’t know. It was one thing that her father had been killed. That was hard enough to accept. But it was at least some small comfort that he hadn’t left his only daughter, not of his own accord. Whether or not Frank had betrayed their vows—thus far, there was no way to know. So many nagging questions remained. Should she even be grieving him at all?

Shana twisted her fingers. What could have gone wrong between them? What possible reason could Frank have had for returning from his trip early? He’d gone to the convention. The hotel concierge had borne that out. But for some mystifying reason, he’d checked out quite abruptly. He’d flown home the night before. Well, not home really. Apparently, he’d gone straight to his office. All without calling. Not since the evening before when he’d phoned to say goodnight.

The front door opened and shut. Helen would have the paper. So many years, Shana had read it cover to cover. It had started with the blitz over her parents. No one had braved to tell her anything much when it happened. “
You’ll understand when you’re older
,” they’d said.

No matter. What they hadn’t told her, the papers had. Eventually, the furor had all died down. Till now, at least. She drew in a long sip from her cup. Perhaps she would cancel her subscription, till Grace was older. She would explain things herself.

Helen walked over to the table. She set the newspaper down. An envelope was in her hand. “I found it on the walk.” Helen extended the letter to Shana. “Just Gracie’s name. No stamp. But that’s Laurel’s handwriting. She must have left it there during the night.”

Shana examined the envelope. “I gather you haven’t said anything to Grace about this yet.”

“No, Ma’am. I wouldn’t.” 

Grace descended the stairs. “I got a letter?”

Shana slid the envelope into the pocket of her dressing gown. “Oh. Grace, why don’t you come sit down with me here while Helen fixes us a nice breakfast.”

Grace padded over. “But is that mine?”

Shana exchanged a glance with Helen, and then turned back to Grace. “Yes, Honey. Yes, it is. And I will give it to you. I promise, I will. But first I need to talk to you. It’s about something very serious, okay?”

Grace’s shoulders slumped. “Okay.”

Shana patted the chair beside her. “Could you sit down with me?”

Warily, Grace slid into the seat. She looked up at Shana, her eyes begging for the truth.

Shana composed herself. She took Grace’s hands in hers. “There’s been some news this morning, Darling. It’s from the detectives. The ones who’ve been looking into what happened to your father.”

Grace’s eyes searched hers. The color drained from her face.

“Sweetheart.” Shana said. “I’m afraid this news, it’s not good.”

Joe squinted at the morning light, streaming in through the Cardinal’s office window. Debra had certainly worked her wonders. Say what you would about the woman. She had pull in all the right places.

Steam rose as an aide poured tea for the Cardinal. “Would you like a cup?” the Cardinal asked. “We have English Breakfast... Let’s see...a variety of black, green and herbal teas if you’re so inclined.”

Joe tapped at the back of a chair. As much as his body ached for sleep, he knew better than to take a seat. “To be honest, I don’t have time.”

The Cardinal selected a lump of sugar with a pair of tongs and deposited it into his cup. “People rush so much these days. I pity the poor soul who doesn’t take time for a cup of tea.”

“It’s urgent.” Joe stepped closer. “It’s about the late councilman, Frank Fischer.”

The aide handed the Cardinal his cup of tea and, with a slight bow, left.

The Cardinal took a sip. “Tragic. Frank Fischer was a good friend of the church.”

“Yes. So I understand,” Joe nodded. “I’ve also learned that the church has employed a recently paroled former priest, Tom Zoring.”

The Cardinal set his cup aside. “I take it you disapprove.” Silence settled between them as the man watched for Joe’s response. “If it’s any sort of consolation, please know how profoundly grieved I am over what happened to your brother. The church is doing everything in its power to address this terrible problem.”

“Actually, that’s not why I’m here.” Joe broke the man’s gaze. He would have to tread carefully. It would not do to offend him, not after he’d agreed to see him this early. “I’ve read that you served alongside Councilman Fischer. At a soup kitchen, during his campaign.”

The Cardinal straightened. “As it happened, we volunteered to help the homeless that Saturday, independent of each other. It wasn’t intended as an endorsement of Mr. Fischer’s campaign, no matter what some may have assumed from the article.” A pleasant smile crossed his lips as he took another sip of his tea.

Sit with him.

Joe rounded the chair and took out a small pad. “Can you tell me...” He settled into the cushion. “I need to know if the church in any way encouraged Councilman Fischer to back the parole of Tom Zoring.”

The Cardinal arched a brow. “If that were the case, I suppose I’d defer to our legal staff. However, in actuality, it was quite the other way around. You see, it was the councilman who lobbied the church to advocate parole with the governor’s office.”

Joe’s eyes widened. He clicked his pen open.

“Given the magnitude of the overall scandal, naturally, the church was more than reluctant to weigh in on the matter.”

“Which is why this was kept out of the press?” Joe scribbled a note.

“The councilman’s support of Mr. Zoring’s release was carefully kept at a discretionary level. It seemed best to avoid the incorrect assumption of impropriety.” The Cardinal leaned in and lowered his voice. “But privately, it could be rightly said that Frank Fischer was Mr. Zoring’s greatest ally.”

Joe rubbed his brow. This made no sense. “But why? With all respect, why would a politician risk doing anything for a defrocked priest? I mean, Frank Fischer? I don’t get it. He wasn’t even Catholic until he converted to remarry.”

Genuine understanding, almost sadness, glinted in the Cardinal’s eyes. “Precisely,” he said.

Joe sat back. He pinched his lip as the new pieces fell into place. At least part of this disturbing picture was starting to come together.

Joe lingered beside a column outside Howard Berg’s posh downtown office building. Towering over the city, encased in granite and steel, the structure reeked of old money. This was the place the wealthy came to protect their concerns in life, to wield power over the less privileged. Like Laurel.

Joe checked his watch. She’d been missing more than a day now. Was she even still alive? She had to be. It was the only possibility he could face.

The automatic doors swished apart. Joe tucked himself behind the column as Howard Berg led Shana Fischer out, toward the valet stand.

Shana handed her ticket stub to the valet. “Promise me you’ll prioritize this, Howard. The judge should know.”

“Shana, you have my word.” Howard nodded agreeably, then retreated into the building.

There wouldn’t be much time. Quickly, Joe sidled up to Shana. When she cut a glance his way, he flashed his press badge. “Joe Hardisty, Mrs. Fischer. Tom Zoring, he was your priest years ago, wasn’t he?”

Shana bristled. “Five minutes worth of research would have turned that up.”

“Me, I’m just wondering how you could support a man like that. And how you could ask your husband to.”

“Everything is black and white with the press.” Shana checked the street toward the garage. “A man is either canonized or vilified. There’s nothing in between.”

“He molested children.”

“He didn’t molest me.” She turned ever so slightly in Joe’s direction. “On the contrary, he was there for me. He confirmed me in the church. He was the one adult I found that I could trust when my parents died.”

“So you got Frank elected on your inheritance, then lobbied through him for Zoring’s release.” Joe fished into his pocket.

“What’s the point, Mr. Hardisty?” Finally, she faced him. “There was nothing improper about what I did. There’s no scoop. It was all there on the record for anyone who took the time to notice.”

He raised the envelope from the letter the councilman had posted to Clay. “Did you know your husband wrote a letter to my brother?”

Shana blanched at the sight of the envelope.

“That’s right,” Joe said. “Small world. Cruel one, too. This isn’t just a story to me. It’s personal. Just like it was for you. My brother, Clay, was one of Tom Zoring’s victims.”

Shana dropped her imperious bearing. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Hardisty. That must have been awful.”

Joe watched as Shana’s car pulled out of the garage. There would not be much more time. “Any reason you can think of that Frank would write to my brother the week before Zoring’s parole hearing?”

Shana paused.

“Please, Mrs. Fischer.”

She exhaled. “He wrote to each of the victims personally, encouraging them not to protest Father Zoring’s parole. I hardly see why that matters now.”

It was all coming together in Joe’s mind. “Laurel saw it. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

Shana’s expression tightened at the sound of Laurel’s name. “Let me tell you something about Laurel’s visions. Laurel sees what she wants to see. She killed Frank to get back at me and to get Grace.  It had nothing to do with Father Zoring.”

“Laurel didn’t kill Frank. But I’m thinking his death had everything to do with Tom Zoring.”

The color drained out of Shana’s face. The idea must have been as disturbing to her as it was to him.

Shana’s sedan glided to the valet stand. “Mr. Hardisty, this conversation is over.” She pressed a twenty into the cashier’s palm and stepped off the curb.

“Feel the need to wash your hands?” Joe could only shake his head as she tipped the valet and left. He’d gotten what he’d come for, but there was no victory in it for Joe.

Not the way this picture was coming together.

Joe wiped the perspiration from the side of his neck. Hastily, he retreated toward the municipal parking lot. Joe bludgeoned himself mercilessly. Why hadn’t he seen it before? Why had he said the things he had?

The seemingly disparate threads that dangled around Laurel’s disappearance cinched about Joe’s throat. They all added up to a singularly horrifying conclusion. Neither Rene nor Kevin Cox had anything to do with this. It was someone else. Someone with knowledge, foresight, motive. And opportunity, not only in connection with the slaying of Frank Fischer, but also in Laurel’s abduction.

His brother, Clay.

sixteen

L
aurel slumped against a metal support beam, her hands and feet bound. Musty odors assaulted her nostrils. Stale cigarettes. Mildew. And something—she dared not guess what—something that had been rotting.

How long this club had been shut down, she didn’t know. Where it was—that was a mystery, too. The blindfold he’d used on her hung loosely around her neck. She only knew she had to stay conscious, no matter how faint she grew.

She wrestled to wrap her mind around the truth. This was Joe’s brother, Clay.

Her captor.

Clay drew insulin into her syringe. A revolver rested on the bar behind him. Without that injection, she’d soon slip into a coma. But the wrong dosage, that could be every bit as lethal.

Why was he keeping her alive? It was hard to know. Perhaps he hadn’t figured out what to do with her yet. Maybe he didn’t have it in him to actually pull that trigger. 

Swallowing was next to impossible, as dry as her throat had gotten. She studied a large poster on the wall behind Clay, a likeness of Marilyn Monroe. Could this slight man in front of her really have posed for that picture? Her eyes wandered from Clay to the poster, over and over again. His fine bone structure, his frame, the pout of his lips.  So, this was why she’d heard the name, Marilyn.

She rested her weary gaze upon him. “You’re the blonde.”

“Always thought I should have been.” Clay flicked the air bubbles out of the insulin syringe.

Stay awake, she reminded herself. “You’re the one I saw Frank with, the one I warned him about. I thought you were a woman.”

“Occupational hazard.” Clay shot a tiny bit of insulin out of the syringe. “I’ve heard you have to be careful with these. Leave a little bit of air in there and it’ll totally shred you.”

Laurel nodded. He was too familiar with needles for her comfort. “They’ll look for me, you know.”

He swatted at a fly. “You offed a councilman.  Of course, they will.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

“They don’t,” Clay said. “That message I had you leave for Joe...that wasn’t the only loose end I tied up.”

Her breath caught.
No, not Grace. Dear Lord, nothing to do with Grace
.  “What did you do?”

“Enough.”

Laurel buckled. “They won’t believe I did this.”

He let out a derisive laugh. “You give the system entirely too much credit.” He studied the syringe. His mouth dropped open as he settled his gaze back on her. “So, just curious...  What happens if you don’t get this?”

There was no point in lying. Either way, she was a dead woman. “Eventually, I’ll go into shock. Then a coma. Then I’d probably die.”

Clay cocked his head. “So, interesting. I really don’t have to do anything. You’ll just slip away.”

How could she reach him? Her vision was beginning to blur, but he didn’t need to know that. Perhaps underneath all that bravado, there was some humanity inside, a wounded heart still within reach. “You don’t really want to hurt me, do you?”

Clay looked down. He pinched his lips together. “Not really.” He rose to his feet. “But what am I supposed to do? You’re all in my business. Telling my brother that I was abused, that you saw blood on me, that I have a thing about Marilyn. Come on, what was going to be next? You forced my hand. Just like he did.”

The truth sliced through her. “Frank.”

He slouched against the bar. “I didn’t want to hurt him either. But we don’t always get what we want. Do we?”

A picture flashed through Laurel’s haze.

Frank. Sitting in his office. And Clay. Silhouetted in the doorframe, as Marilyn
.

She watched, stunned, as the scene played out before her. It was all so familiar, picking up where that last disturbing dream she’d had about Frank left off.  “You went to his office that night. In costume.”

Desperation flashed in Clay’s eyes. “He said he’d meet me.”

“You just wanted money.”

Clay paced, his jaw clenched. “What are you doing? Stop that.”

“You were desperate.”

“I’d been evicted, okay? Do you get that? I was on the street. He wanted me to back Zoring in the morning. Why couldn’t he pay for that?”

The vision resumed, in harrowing detail. “He felt threatened. He pretended to get his checkbook, then pulled out a gun. That gun.” Laurel nodded toward the revolver on the bar. “You went for it.”

Clay strode toward her. “Stop it!”

“You reached for the gun. Frank fired.” She gasped at the look on Frank’s face. “He was so startled that the first chamber was empty. He checked the cylinder and snapped it back into place to fire again, but you—”

“No, no, no...Stop!”

“You grabbed the letter opener. It wasn’t murder. It was raw instinct. To protect yourself. But when he raised the gun again—”

Clay slapped his hands over his ears. “How do you know? You weren’t even there!”

Laurel gasped for breath. She looked at him as squarely as her faltering eyesight would allow. “He shows me. That’s all I can tell you. I see it.”

Joe hung up the phone in Debra’s office. He cradled his face in his hands. Where could Clay have gone? And what had he done with Laurel? It was all so hard to comprehend, and yet it was true.

Debra bustled into her office. She sure looked a lot more put together than he felt. 

He rubbed his eyes. “Thank you, Debra.”

“Forget it.” She pushed her door closed.

“No, it’s...” Joe set his hands down. “You’re stepping up for me and I really appreciate it.” Joe pushed back from her desk. “Still can’t believe it was Clay the whole time.”

“You haven’t called anyone else about this, have you?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Just you.”

“Anything on his manager yet?”

“Disconnected,” Joe said. “No forwarding address or number. Not that I can find. And the number on the councilman’s letter to the victims, it was a burner phone. No longer in service.”

She set her handbag down. “Are you sure you want me to call McTier with this?”

Joe barely shrugged. “Someone has to. And I can’t.  He’s still my brother.”

“Yeah. As much as I guess I can, I understand.” She reached into her bag and fished out McTier’s card. “They’re going to want to search your place, you know.”

He nodded. “I can’t get tied up in that.” Slowly, he lumbered to his feet. “I’ve got to find her. Somehow.”

“I’ll oversee your apartment search.”

“As a member of the press?” His weary eyes scanned hers.

“As your friend.  I’ll give them my key.”

He rustled his rumpled hair. “I forgot you still had one.”

“Funny, how things change.” Debra forced a half smile, then rounded her desk and hit her speakerphone button. “I’ll make sure they don’t trash the place.” She punched in the number that she had there, jotted on McTier’s card.

Joe lingered at the doorjamb as the line rang through.

The detective picked up with a grunt. “
Yeah
.”

Debra settled into her executive desk chair. “Detective McTier. This is Debra Bernet. I’m with
Kickerton Press
.”

“
How’d you get this number?
”

She gave Joe a sly grin. “I heard you were out late last night. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“
Just keep jerking me
,” McTier said. “
I’m already citing that shooter of yours for impeding an investigation
.”

Debra shooed Joe away as she swiveled in her chair. “No, you’re not, Detective. Not actually. And I’m just about to tell you why.”

Laurel’s eyes fluttered to a close. Sleep drew her, pulling her into its bog. Moist, heavy, inviting. She shook her head violently. No. She could not let herself succumb to it, not if she wanted any chance at living, any hope of seeing Grace again.

What must Joe think? She could only hope he’d understood what she’d tried to say in that message. But even if he had, how could he begin to find her? All she could do was pray. And that was getting more difficult with each passing hour. There were no more words, none of her own.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...

The door in the back opened. Then it shut just as quickly. Clay was back. She heard the deadbolt slide back into place.

I fear no evil; for Thou art with me.

It was hard to tell how long Clay had been gone. Standing there in the dark—bound and gagged like that—all sense of time and space blended into a black hole of nothingness.

Clay strode into sight. He set down the newspapers he had bundled under his arm. He loosened her gag and squirted some bottled water into her mouth.

Swallow, she told herself. Swallow as much as you can. He would not give her very much. Too much meant he would have to untie her. He’d have to escort her at gunpoint to that filthy toilet in the back.

The first time, she’d hoped to find a window there. Or something, anything to help her escape. But there had been nothing. Not even a bar of soap to write a message. All she could think to do was leave her fingerprints on the mirror, a strand of her hair on the floor.

Her throat was still so parched. Most of what he’d given her ran down her neck. She shook with fever.

“You made the paper today.” He picked up the day’s edition. “The
Times
, no less. Not that rag Joe works for. Decent picture. Better days, I guess.”

Clay turned the article in Laurel’s direction.  Her eyes settled on the headline:
WARRANT OUT ON COUNCILMAN’S EX
.

“He knows, Clay.”

Clay waved a hand. “My brother is clueless.”

“I’m talking about God.”

“God?” He spat. “You’re talking to me about God again? What does he care? I mean, look at you.  You’re a whimpering disaster. Your husband leaves you, completely trashes you. You lost your daughter. You live in that dumpy neighborhood. You’re a train wreck physically. Please.”

Clay’s gaze turned to the article on former Father Tom Zoring. “And get this: ‘Home Church Employs Fallen Priest.’ ” He shook his head with disdain. “Ever ask yourself why God takes better care of the pedophiles than you?”

“He’s trying to take care of you now.”

Clay slapped the paper down. “Shut up! Shut your lying mouth!”

“I’ll stand up for you, Clay. I’ll tell them what happened.”

Side to side, he paced in front of her. “Yeah, well, you’re a joke. A religious psycho. You know that? You’re just like him.” He stabbed a finger at Tom Zoring’s picture in the paper.

She labored for air. Every breath was an effort now. Much longer and she wouldn’t survive it.

“My brother, Joe. He said he’d stand up for me, too. And we can see how great that worked out. Well, I’m not some snot-nosed runt anymore.  I’m not buying that load this time.”

“There’s a reason I was shown these things. I can help.”

He grimaced. “You just want your insulin fix.”

“Please, Clay...”

“You think I’m stupid?” He whirled at her. “No. Absolutely not. This is between me and Zoring. You got that?”