A Guilty Mind (21 page)

 

Chapter Forty-­One

G
EORGE OP
ENED ONE
eye. The sun blazed and he turned away, groaning. He struggled to sit up but fell back again, screaming in pain.

“He's awake.” Voices and faces he didn't recognize appeared before him.

“Let's move,” another man's voice said.

He felt himself lifted up and then forward, up again, and then nothing. Doors slammed and sirens blared, but it sounded far away. Floating, the faces and voices faded. Drifting in and out of consciousness, his mind whisked him back into the past.

“Do you recall,” Dr. Michael had asked, “how Sarah looked just before she told you this truth, this thing she said she hadn't been honest about?”

George stretched his legs and propped his feet up on the armrest of the sofa. He folded his hands across his chest and smiled. In a few hours, he'd escort his daughter to the father-­daughter dance at her high school. Closing his eyes, the image of his daughter's face, so like his own, flitted through his mind. Elizabeth Grace was a beautiful person, a far better person than her father.

“George, are you listening?”

“Sorry,” he said, opening his eyes. He sat up, still smiling. “I was thinking about my daughter. We're going out together tonight, just the two of us.”

The therapist cocked his head to the side. “You seem happy at the prospect.”

“I am. She asked me a month ago. We're having dinner first, then going to a dance at her school. She'll be dressed up.” George smiled again, his heart swelling. “My little girl is growing up.”

“Yes, children do that. They turn into adults rather quickly.”

The patient turned his eyes toward his therapist. “You know, I've never asked you. Do you have any children?”

“No,” Dr. Michael said, his mouth set in a thin line. “It's best if we don't discuss my personal life, George. Let's get back to Sarah.”

“Okay. What was it you asked again?”

“Sarah said she hadn't been honest with you. How did she look right before she told you the truth?”

George leaned back on the sofa, no longer smiling. He picked at a loose thread on his pants. “It was a long time ago, I'm not sure I can remember.”

“Try, please.”

He pulled at the thread, twisting it between his fingers. “Sarah,” he said, his voice soft. “I don't think she could look me in the eye.” The thread broke and he let it flutter to the floor. “That's right. That's why I didn't believe her at first.”

“At first. What does that mean?”

“I believed her later.”

“Why?”

“Details. She gave me details. When. Where.” George's voice cracked. “Who.”

“I see. Could she still have been lying?”

“No. She knew too much. It had to be true.” George seemed unsure, however. “But you think she might have been lying?”

Dr. Michael's tone was even. “I can't give you an answer, George. The truth, whatever that may be, is for you to discover.”

“It was a long time ago,” he said again.

“Think,” the doctor said. George felt the heat of the doctor's gaze and shifted on the sofa. “Try to remember not just what she said but how she said it. Is it possible she was lying?”

George's eyes snapped open. Each breath brought stabbing pain.

A man's voice said, “Get him something now!”

He rolled his head to one side and glimpsed white walls, tubes, and shiny machinery. A hospital. He blinked. ­People in white jackets moved around him doing things, but said nothing to him. He slowed his breathing to the most tolerable level. There was a sedan and a truck. He remembered. The sedan had tried to run him off the road. The truck came toward him so fast. George had tried to avoid the truck, but there was nowhere to go. They'd crashed. So much noise and pain. He reached up touched his face, his fingers feeling the swollen cheeks and lips. He felt like someone had belted him with a mean right and followed with a serious left hook. He took another shallow breath.

“Must have been some wreck.”

“Yeah, he was lucky.”

George heard the voices and wanted to tell them it was no accident, but he couldn't speak, his lips fat and his mouth numb. His eyelids fluttered and he fell back in time again.

“It's not your baby,” Sarah said, dark eyes focused on some distant point over his shoulders.

Was she kidding? After everything she'd put him through the past few weeks and the guilt he'd felt about his initial reaction, she had the nerve to use that as her way to end the relationship? He wanted to spit. “Don't give me that bullshit.”

“I never told you it was your baby. I said I was pregnant.” He said nothing, arms crossed. “It's not your baby,” she repeated.

For several minutes, he couldn't look at her. “Lying is beneath you,” he said when he could speak. “I don't know why you think I'm that stupid or why you think I'd believe that crap. I know I was a jerk, but I know you were faithful to me.” He glared at her. “This is so unbelievable. You're a terrible liar.”

She gasped. Tears mixed with frustration. “I'm not lying,” she said, voice quivering.

“Yeah?” He took a step closer. “About which thing? Are you saying you just told me a lie or that you lied before? I refuse to believe the baby isn't mine. You're just trying to get me to hate you so I'll leave you alone.”

Her cheeks were wet. “And will you? Leave me alone?”

They locked eyes and George knew he'd seen through her ruse. Was it her last attempt to push him away? Could he finally convince her now that he would stand by her no matter what? He took a chance. “No.”

Someone squeezed his hand, pressing it hard and gripping as though they didn't want to let go. It was comforting as he drifted along, time shifting in his mind—­past and present all lumped together. There were voices again—­close by—­he thought. The hand squeezed again. George tried to squeeze back, but no one seemed to notice. He felt so far away. Was that Mary Helen he heard? She sounded worried, her voice strained and thin. His lashes fluttered, eyes opening briefly. Mary Helen's face hovered close to his. She tried to smile, but her lips trembled. She said something he couldn't understand, picked up his hand, and kissed it. He drifted away again and thought,
Why did she look so old?

Sarah wiped away her tears and raised her eyes to his. “It was Gordon,” she said.

“What?” He laughed out loud. “Gordon? My roommate? Really, Sarah? You'll have to do better than that.”

She looked past him up the drive. When her eyes slid back to his, her tone was harsh. “It's true. It was the weekend you went sailing with your dad. I went to your room with stuff I'd made for you—­cookies and brownies. I wanted to surprise you. Gordon let me in and told me where to put everything. He gave me some paper to write you a note.”

George remembered that weekend. He'd been looking forward to it, surprised his dad could get away and wanted to spend his free time with his son. Yet none of it went the way he thought it would. When they weren't sailing, his father had spent most of the time grilling George about his future, his career, and Mary Helen. Tired of the interrogation, he'd drunk a six-­pack, much to the chagrin of his watchful dad. He remembered the weekend, but her story didn't sound right. There had been nothing for him when he returned to his room Sunday evening. No cookies. No note. And Gordon hadn't said anything, either.

“Good try. But you didn't leave anything, Sarah. You were never even there.”

“He offered me a beer and I thought he was a nice guy, you know. He was your friend. So I took it and then he gave me another.” She took a breath and pushed the dark hair off her face. “He sat a little closer to me on the bed and we started talking. I think I had another beer. Next thing I knew he pulled me onto his lap.”

George's face flamed. He and Gordon had been roommates for three years. Gordon never had a steady girlfriend, preferring to drift from affair to affair. “The more the merrier” was his slogan. It occurred to George that Gordon had made comments about Sarah on more than one occasion.

“I made a joke about it and pushed him away. But he pulled me back, rubbing my arms and shoulders.”

Every tendon in his neck pulsed. He balled his hands into fists. Gordon had come on to Sarah behind his back?

“He told me he wanted me and he knew I wanted him, too.”

The vision of his roommate pawing Sarah sent waves of fury through the young man. He wanted to scream, to cry out, to throw something. “Are you trying to tell me,” he said, his jaw clenched, “that while I was with my dad, Gordon attacked you?” Another, more horrendous thought, flooded his mind. “Oh my God, did he rape you?”

 

Chapter Forty-­Two

M
ARTIN STOMPED AROUND
the precinct, yelling at anyone and everyone, spit and toothpicks flying from his mouth. The news that Vandenberg was lying in a hospital, in no condition to be served with an arrest warrant for murder, had sent the captain into a tirade. As Cancini had suspected, Martin had used the analysis prepared by the precinct shrink to convince the D.A.'s office to issue the warrant in spite of a mostly circumstantial case. The pressure from the brass and the widow's lawyer had made him want the case solved yesterday. Cancini didn't like the decision, but the captain, not too subtly, reminded him he didn't make the call. His superior did. Still, it wasn't just the circumstantial evidence that didn't sit well with Cancini. It was the tapes, the timeline, and the unanswered questions. He'd lain awake half the night, ideas popping in and out of his head, some too far-­fetched to be possible and others pure speculation. None of it proved anything and Martin wasn't the type to listen to theories, especially when he had an arrest warrant in hand. The warrant might be delayed a ­couple of days, but it would be served.

Heads down, Cancini and Smitty rechecked every piece of information. They pored over bank statements, receipts, insurance documents, and transcripts of interviews. Late in the day, Smitty tossed a phone log onto Cancini's desk.

“What's this?” he asked.

“That girl, Lauren Temple. What was your impression?”

“I don't know,” he said with a sigh. His eyes itched, he was tired, and the knot between his shoulders had grown to the size of a baseball. “She was a smart-­mouth, bratty.”

“So, not the type to pay condolences.”

Cancini snorted. “No, but we've been over this. Other than seeing her leave the Michael house, there's no connection between the two women. The maid had never seen the girl before. No one at Mrs. Michael's office recognized her, and Mrs. Michael didn't visit her husband's office so she couldn't have run into her there. We have no evidence they knew each other.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I've highlighted three calls made from the Michael house to the Stratford Grill in the last three months.”

Cancini looked up. “Lauren Temple's restaurant.” He scanned the phone record. The calls were made on weekdays between the hours of five and six
P.M
. when Dr. Michael would still have been at the office. He tapped his fingers against his desk. “Takeout?”

“Too far from the house and not convenient to either of the Michaels' offices.”

“But not impossible?”

“No.”

“Okay. Let's assume they did know each other before Dr. Michael died. That by itself is not suspicious and both women have alibis.”

“Damn. I forgot.” Smitty picked up another folder. “Funny though. Did you know Lauren Temple grew up in Boston?”

Cancini's fingers stopped moving. “You don't say?”

“I do say. Her boyfriend mentioned it. Said she only moved here a year ago, maybe less.”

“Now that is funny.” Cancini flipped through his notes until he found her interview. He had an address, work information, and age. She'd visited the doctor occasionally, but not regularly. The dates and times were listed in his notes. “A year ago?”

“Looks like it.”

He scowled down at the pages in his hands. He didn't believe in coincidences. Had Mrs. Michael met the girl at the restaurant? Did they know they both hailed from Boston? He tossed the papers aside. Even if the women knew each other, it meant nothing. It didn't prove motive or opportunity. But that didn't stop him from wondering.

Smitty leaned in, his voice low. “You're not sold on Vandenberg?”

“Are you?”

“Well, Dr. Michael was pushing the guy pretty hard. He might've snapped.” Smitty paused, then added, “But it would be better if we had the murder weapon or something that placed him at the crime scene.”

“More evidence would be better.” He heard Vandenberg's voice in his head, a sound he was having a harder and harder time forgetting. He didn't want to think about the tapes. “Still nothing on the girl?”

Smitty shook his head. “I checked all three counties near Vandenberg's river house. There were no death certificates or missing person reports listed with that name, but they're still looking.”

Cancini frowned. It had been a long shot. Many of the rural counties hadn't yet gotten around to putting old cases on the computer system. And even if the files were located, it was possible her body had gone unidentified, a Jane Doe. He stood and swept several files into a bag. “I'm gonna call it a day.”

For the second night in a row, the detective lay awake, tossing and turning. The king-­sized bed he still slept in felt empty, his slight build stretched out on the large mattress. Hot, he threw off the covers and stared at the ceiling fan circling over his head, the whirling blades pushing the cool air down to his damp skin. His mind would not shut off and he couldn't stop thinking about Dr. Michael and what he was trying to accomplish with George. What if Vandenberg had confessed? What was in it for Michael? None of it made sense. What was he missing?

Sitting up, he flipped on a light. It wasn't just Dr. Michael. He knew he wouldn't rest until he found Sarah Winter. Vandenberg may have taken Sarah's life, but he couldn't have known she'd be erased from existence after she was gone. She deserved better than to end up a Jane Doe. His head ached. He got up and splashed cold water on his face. Staring into the mirror, his mind went back to Dr. Michael's timeline. He saw every moment, every second sketched out in detail. He blinked. Every moment except one. George had no idea when Mary Helen arrived on the scene. A large question mark had been penciled over her name. How long had she been there? And why?

He spread the files across the living room floor, picking out pages and laying them in a line. Two hours later he sat down, spent but relieved. He'd told Smitty he didn't believe in coincidences. He still didn't. He grabbed the phone and dialed his partner. He had more than a hunch now, more than an idea. Cancini talked, knowing how insane it sounded, even to him. Hanging up, he felt better. Maybe he could sleep after all.

He boarded the early-­morning flight to Boston with less confidence than he would have liked. In the light of day, he worried the trip was a wild-­goose chase. He'd bypassed the captain. If it panned out, he wouldn't get suspended. If it didn't, well, he guessed he deserved what he got. Smitty's buddy, Johnny, met him at Logan, two manila file folders in his hand.

Cancini scanned the first file, most of the information already in his notes. The second file was new, the primary reason he'd come to Boston. He read every word of the short report, some parts a second time, especially interested in the last few years of available information.

“That enough for ya?” Johnny asked.

It would do. “Yep. How'd you get it so fast?”

“I pulled a few strings.”

“Thanks. You're a stand-­up guy.”

“Sure. Any friend of Smitty's is a friend of mine. D'ya need a ride?”

Cancini tossed the empty coffee cup in the trash and glanced around the airport. Men and women in suits hurried past the two cops, racing to catch their planes or collect their bags. Sighing, he thought about where he needed to go, and what he might need to do. For one brief moment he wished he were one of those ­people, stressed about some business meeting or spreadsheet or scheduled merger. But the image of a dead man lying on the floor popped into his head and the feeling passed. “I'm gonna grab a cab. Thanks anyway.” He shook hands with the Boston cop.

He dialed Smitty. “I'm here.”

“Did you get what you need?”

“Enough. Johnny's a good guy. I'll keep you posted.”

“Hey, I talked to the boyfriend. You were right.”

Cancini sighed. “Okay. See how far you can take it.”

In the taxi, he pulled two photos from his pocket and placed them in the second file. He watched the traffic crawl by, his hands on his knees. He didn't know if he wanted to be right. Sometimes the truth hurt so much, wounded so deeply, some ­people never recovered. This could be one of those times. But he was a cop and no matter how gray life was, homicide was black and white. Dr. Michael was dead. Someone had to pay.