All Fall Down (10 page)

“Much lower, no doubt.” Stan laughed, the sound tight and bitter. “You always thought the worst of me. Because of your old man.”

“My father?
He
has nothing to do with this.”

“No? You don't think that maybe, deep down, you believe that because he was a monster, all men are?”

“Diverting focus? Great courtroom technique, Counselor, but it's not going to work with me. We were married, remember?”

He released his breath in a long sigh. “I bought Casey the dog because I wanted to make him happy, okay? Because I'm his father and I like doing nice things for him.”

This time it was Melanie who laughed bitterly. “Stan May never does anything ‘just to be nice,' not even for his son. Stan May always works the angles, is always one step ahead, manipulating events to his own best advantage. Always.”

He made a sound of disgust and turned away from her. “I refuse to talk to you when you're this way. You're not making sense.” He climbed into his car and started it. “If you have a problem, call my lawyer. Better yet—” he yanked at his safety belt, then snapped the clip into the buckle “—have your lawyer call mine.”

Melanie caught the car door before he closed it. “Casey's happy here. He's happy with me. Don't shake up his life this way. Think of him.”

“I am,” he said curtly, two spots of bright color dotting his cheeks. “I can give him so much more than you can.”

“Only things.” She bent to look him in the eyes. “Casey belongs with me, Stan. You know he does.”

“I know no such thing.” Stan slipped the gearshift into Reverse. “Besides, from this point on, that's up to the judge to decide.”

T
he woman sitting across from Melanie wasn't pretty, though she might have once been. Her painted face bore the ravages of a street whore's life, one filled with abuses against both self and soul.

In the hopes of reviving the stone-cold trail in the Andersen investigation, the CMPD investigators had decided to follow up on Connor Parks's suggestion to question local hookers in the hopes one would recognize the killer from his sexual ritual and Parks's profile. They had ordered a street sweep the night before.

In Melanie's opinion they should have taken this action three weeks before, but since the Whistlestop force had been relegated to an
advisory
status only her opinion meant squat. The only reason she and Bobby had even been actively included in the interrogations was that the sweep had rounded up nearly three dozen working girls, way more than Harrison and Stemmons could comfortably handle without violating their charge-or-release-in-twenty-four-hours right.

Melanie fought back a yawn and glanced at her watch. She'd been here since just after midnight; it was now 8:00 a.m. She thought about another cup of
coffee, then decided against it. Her stomach already felt like she'd dumped a quart of battery acid into it.

Melanie glanced at the form on the table in front of her. This hooker's name was Sugar. Of the eight working girls she had already interviewed none recognized—or admitted recognizing—the man from Parks's profile. Some had been cooperative, but most had been uncommunicative and angry. Judging by Sugar's expression, she was definitely going to fall into the latter category.

“Hello, Sugar,” she said.

“I've got a call comin'. I want to make a call.”

“We'll get to that in a moment. Cigarette?” Melanie slid the pack across the table to the woman.

The hooker said nothing, but helped herself to one of the smokes. Melanie lit it for her, then slipped the lighter into her pocket. She waited until the woman had taken a couple of deep drags before speaking. “I need to ask you a few questions, Sugar. We're looking for a john.”

“Aren't we all?”

“A particular john. He's into some unusual stuff. Likes to tie girls up. Likes to insert things into their—”

The whore laughed, the sound gravelly from years of smoking. “They all like that, sweetheart. It's called fucking.”

“Their body cavities,” she finished. “Unusual things. Unnatural. Ringing any bells yet?”

“Fuck off.”

“He's a professional guy. Looks like he has money.
Good-looking. Drives a nice car. Real smooth guy, at least at first.”

Something, some emotion, flickered behind the woman's eyes then was gone. She glared at Melanie. “Tell me why the fuck I should help you? Pigs never did nothin' to help me even when I wasn't on the street.”

Melanie didn't blink at either her words or the venom behind them. “Because a girl is dead,” she said simply. “And because another might die.”

Sugar took another and final drag on the smoke, then crushed it in the tin ashtray on the table in front of her. “You're talking about that rich girl, aren't you? The one everybody's making such a stink over?”

“Joli Andersen. Yes.”

For a moment the hooker said nothing, her expression screwed up with bitterness. “You think I give a shit about some spoiled little rich bitch?”

“Do you think she deserved to die because her daddy has a lot of money? Is that what you're telling me?”

The question, Melanie saw, had surprised the woman. She shook her head and reached for the cigarettes. “I didn't mean that.”

Melanie leaned toward the other woman. “A killer is out there. We believe he frequents, or has frequented, working girls. There's nothing to say that he won't strike one of your own next.”

“You cops don't give a shit about us working girls, so don't come on like it's any different. A guy kicks around a girl like me, you stand back and don't do nothing.”

“
You
could be next, Sugar. You know that, don't you?”

The hooker shook one of the cigarettes out of the pack. Melanie slid her the lighter. She lit the cigarette, hand shaking.

“You worried about something, Sugar?”

She inhaled deeply. “Yeah, I've got to take a pee.”

“You know this john, don't you? And you're afraid of him.”

She blew a long stream of smoke in Melanie's face, then smiled. “Fuck you.”

“I can help you. You help me, I'll help you.”

“I want my call.”

“Did he almost kill you, Sugar? Did he tell you he was going to and you struggled but couldn't get away?”

“Shut up.”

“Did he put the pillow over your face?” Melanie lowered her voice. “Could you tell he was getting off, knowing you were dying? Seeing you struggle to breathe?”

“I said, shut the fuck up!”

“What happened, Sugar? What stopped him?” Melanie reached across the table and caught the woman's hand with one of her own, gripping tightly. “He get scared off? You think you're going to be so lucky the next time?”

The hooker yanked her hand away and jumped to her feet, her face white. The cigarette dropped from her fingers and hit the edge of the table, then rolled to the floor.

“Nothin' happened! Okay? Don't know that john, don't want to know that john!”

She was lying. Melanie didn't know why she was so certain of that, but she was. She told her so. “You know it and I know it. The only way you're going to be safe is to finger him. Help me get this animal off the street.”

Sugar went to the door and pounded on it. “I want my call! You hear me, I want my call.”

Melanie stood and crossed to the woman, looking her dead in the eyes. “Tell me what happened, Sugar. Tell me about him, and I'll help you. That guy, the one who's kicking you around…you tell me about the man I'm looking for, and I'll take care of him for you.”

“You're too late. Bastard's dead and buried. Thanks to fate and Mother Nature, not you cops. Now, do I get my call or do I walk?”

Melanie decided to let her walk, though she knew she might catch hell for it. Charging her wouldn't serve any purpose—she would be back on the street in a matter of hours. And it seemed to Melanie that Sugar had been dished plenty of shit in her life. She didn't need Melanie to be heaping on more.

She handed the woman a card, printed with both her office and beeper number. “Call me if you remember something. Or if you need anything. Anytime.”

The woman took the card, her expression disbelieving. “You're just going to let me go?”

She opened the door. “Yeah, but don't tell the world. Okay?”

Sugar stared at her a moment, something akin to
gratitude in her expression, then nodded and ducked out the door. As she disappeared around the corner, Melanie turned to find Pete Harrison heading down the hall toward her.

“Get anything?” he asked when he got close enough.

“Nothing concrete.” She glanced over her shoulder in the direction Sugar had gone, then turned back to the investigator. “Though I have a feeling the last girl was hiding something. She definitely seemed—”

He cut her off. “They're all hiding something, May. That's the nature of the profession.”

“I understand that, but I got the definite impression that she'd run across our guy. When I pressed her, she lost it. It wasn't a matter of being secretive, Pete. She was scared.”

“Write it up. I'll look over your report and decide if we need to follow up.” He checked his watch. “She was the last. Turn in your notes on the way out.”

“Excuse me?”

“We're finished. Thank you.”

He was blowing her off. The jerk.
Well, she would not be dismissed like some delivery boy. “Your guys get anything of consequence?”

“A few leads. If they pan out, you'll hear about it.”

In the newspaper, same as everybody else. The bastard.

A tart reply flew to her tongue, but before she could utter it, Bobby emerged from the interrogation room behind the investigator. He had obviously heard their exchange because he made a face and mimed jerking off with his right hand.

Seeing the direction of her gaze and her obvious amusement, Pete swung around. Bobby smiled at the man, his hands now innocently in his pockets. “I take it we're finished?”

“We are,” she answered, moving around the investigator and joining her partner. “What do you say we check in with headquarters, then grab some breakfast? I'm starved.”

Bobby was, too, and they stopped at a diner located between CMPD headquarters and the Whistlestop PD. Bobby grabbed a newspaper on the way in before they made their way to a booth at the back of the restaurant.

The waitress arrived with fresh coffee and menus; they ordered right away—a waffle for her and bacon and eggs for him.

As the woman left with their orders, Melanie wagged a finger at her partner. Though incredibly thin, Bobby's cholesterol was borderline high. His wife, Helen, took that number very seriously—saturated fats had disappeared from the Taggerty household. “I bet bacon and eggs aren't on your diet. What would Helen say?”

He made a face. “Are you kidding? All I get anymore is rabbit food, fish or skinless chicken breasts. A real man can't live on that stuff. A real man needs things like bacon. Besides, my cholesterol number isn't high, it's
borderline,
there's a difference.”

When Melanie only arched an eyebrow, he muttered something about all women being in cahoots and told her to stick it in her ear.

She laughed and took a sip of water. “Learn anything tonight?”

“Sure did.” He added milk and sugar to his coffee and in his best Willie Nelson imitation sang, “Mama, don't let your babies grow up to be hookers.”

“Funny.”

He sobered. “Actually, not funny at all. Really sad.” He was silent a moment, then went on. “Not one of the working girls I interviewed admitted having had business transactions with a guy that fit Parks's profile.”

“Mine either.” She looked away, then back. “But as one of the women I interviewed said, why should they help us?”

“A sense of civic responsibility?”

“Get real.” She lifted her coffee cup to her lips, then set it back down. “Where was Parks, by the way? I'm surprised he wasn't there.”

“You didn't hear? Suspended.”

She hadn't heard, but she wasn't surprised. “For stepping on the wrong toes. Powerful toes. Am I correct?”

“You are, indeed.”

“First us, then Parks.” She made a sound of irritation. “He might not have been my favorite person, but he seemed to know what he was doing. A lot more than those jokers over at the CMPD.”

“They're good guys. And good cops. You're just pissed 'cause you're not one of them.”

He said the last as the waitress arrived with their food. Melanie waited until she had walked away, then leaned toward him. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It's not a secret, Mel. You long for the big leagues. I don't, but I understand. It's got to be frustrating sit
ting back and watching others do what you want to be doing. And then, when a big case does come along, to get pushed out… I suppose I'd have a chip on my shoulder, too.”

“I don't have a chip on my shoulder.”

“Yeah right.” He salted his eggs, then took a big bite. “You mind if I read the paper while we eat?”

“Go ahead. But people will start to talk. It'll look like we're married.”

With a laugh, Bobby snapped open his newspaper. Melanie dug into her waffle, thoughts on Bobby's comment. Did she have a chip on her shoulder? Did she unfairly judge the CMPD investigators because she was jealous?

She frowned, not liking the way that sounded. Not liking the way it made her feel.

She opened her mouth to question Bobby, then blinked, suddenly aware that she was staring across the table at a headline on the front page of the
Charlotte Observer.

Man Acquitted of Sexual Assault Found Dead.

She leaned forward and quickly scanned the article. “Oh my God,” she murmured. “Did you see this, Bobby? About Jim McMillian?”

“Who?”

“Jim McMillian. The rape case. Remember? Seven or eight months back, highly publicized.”

Bobby nodded. “Rich guy? Hired a team of expensive lawyers from New York? They got him off, though the jury of public opinion found him guilty?”

“As hell. Pass it over, I want to take a closer look.”

He did. The article reported that Jim McMillian had
died of a heart attack, one caused by digitalis poisoning.

Melanie reread the last, not believing her eyes. “This can't be.”

“What?” Bobby craned his neck in an attempt to see what had caught her attention.

“That's how my father died.”

“A heart attack?”

“One caused by an elevated level of digitalis in the blood.”

Bobby frowned. “The cardiac drug?”

“The very one. Like my dad, Jim McMillian was taking prescription digitalis.”

“He overdosed on his heart medicine?”

“Essentially.” Melanie explained. “The thing is, at only three to four times the dose used to regulate heart rhythm, digitalis becomes lethal. That's not all that much. And here's where it gets tricky. Sudden shifts in body chemistry can cause blood levels of digitalis to rise and bring on a heart attack. It's why patients on the drug are closely monitored by their doctor. Ashley explained it all to me.”

“This can really happen?” He frowned. “My dad's on that medicine.”

“A lot of people are. As I understood it, my dad's death was a freakish occurrence. Rare. That's what's so weird about this.”

Bobby consumed his last bite of eggs and crumb of bacon, wiped his mouth and tossed his paper napkin on the plate. “Considering McMillian's heart condition, I'm surprised the medical examiner did more than a cursory check before pronouncing him dead of a
heart attack. A chemical analysis is rarely done in heart patients.”