All Fall Down (15 page)

U
nable to sleep, Melanie stared at the ceiling. A week had passed since she and Bobby had fallen out, a week since she had humiliated him—and herself—in front of the CMPD guys.

In those seven days, the things her partner and the other detectives had said to her had worked at her like a splinter, a constant irritation, chafing at the very edge of her thoughts, drawing her attention away from other, less troublesome things.

Which was precisely why she was awake at 4:00 a.m., cursing her sleeplessness. For the seventh night in a row.

Suspecting that this night would be no different than the previous ones, she climbed out of bed and headed to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

Careful not to disturb Casey, she got a pot brewing, then leaned against the counter and watched the brown liquid drip into the glass carafe. She yawned and the aroma of coffee filled her head, seeming to jump-start her brain.

The solution to her problem was obvious.

She needed help. The support of someone with more credentials than a cop with a force no bigger than the average spit on a hot, dry day. She was alone in
this. Bobby had made his position crystal clear, as had the CMPD. She didn't dare go to her chief—if she did and he told her to drop it, she would be forced to or risk her career.

So, the question was, how did she get someone to come on board with her?

She needed more proof. Something to link the victims. Something conclusive. Or too coincidental to be ignored.

She needed another dead batterer.

She straightened, suddenly fully awake. Of course. How could she have been so thick? There could be many more victims. This killer could have been operating for years.

She began to pace, coffee forgotten. She had found the three victims so easily, by chance really. But now she knew what to look for. A history of abuse against women. Deaths involving bizarre accidents.

How hard could it be?

Melanie found out just how hard. In the weeks that followed she spent every available waking moment working to locate the proof she needed. She went without sleep; she neglected Casey, depending on television and videos to entertain him; she had seen neither of her sisters in two weeks and had only had a couple of hurried conversations with them in all that time; at work, she was only doing the minimum, allowing Bobby to pick up the slack. She was a woman obsessed, totally focused on proving she was right.

The library became her best friend. The weekends Casey was with his dad, she arrived as they opened their doors and left when they closed them, spending
that time searching the microfilm back issues of the
Charlotte Observer
's obituaries.

She began with issues dated a year and a half ago, her intention to look for men who had died as the result of bizarre accidents. She'd realized quickly that depending on the information provided in the obituary, almost anything could be suspect. She ruled out murders, deaths of very young men and the very old; she also ruled out anyone who'd died after a “long illness.” She made note of any victims of heart attacks.

Melanie had thought it would be easy. Instead, it was like looking for a needle in a haystack, tedious, slow going. Near-impossible. With each questionable death, she recorded the victim's name, their municipality, the names of family members left behind, if services had been held and where.

Her list grew. Her enthusiasm waned. But not her determination. She was like a dog with a bone between its teeth and she was not about to let go.

At night, she studied up on serial killers. Ted Bundy. Son of Sam. The Atlanta child killer. The Green River killer. She read accounts from the FBI's serial-crime unit, running across Connor Parks's name on several occasions.

From her research, she learned that serial killers were almost always men. She learned that they rarely killed across racial lines and that they typically operated in one place or region for a long period of time. Their killings followed a pattern, or ritual. That ritual could evolve, but it didn't vary. This pattern created a recognizable signature for the criminal investigator to read. It allowed him or her a glimpse inside the killer's
mind. And offered law enforcement its most effective means of catching them.

Connor Parks was the one she would go to. When she had her proof.

The words on the page before her blurred. Melanie rubbed the bridge of her nose, acknowledging fatigue. The stirrings of despair. Standing and stretching, Melanie gave in to the first and fought off the second.

It was no wonder she was feeling depressed. The research was grisly. Disturbing. It left her wondering what could twist the human psyche to the point that such heinous acts of man against man were possible. What could contort it to the point that even murder was not enough to satisfy, that pleasure could only be attained from another's screams of agony. Who made these monsters? Where did they come from?

And how could the world be rid of them?

Melanie shuddered, then glanced toward Casey's bedroom, fear settling over her like a cold, wet shroud. Stealing her peace of mind, chilling her to her core.

Her heart began to pound; her breath grew short, her palms damp. She hurried to his bedroom door; she eased it open and peeked inside the dark room.

He was there in his bed, safe and asleep.

The breath shuddered past her lips, and Melanie stood in his doorway for long moments, letting the sound of his soft snores comfort her. He slept soundly, covers wadded at his feet. He lay on his stomach, one arm looped over his favorite stuffed bunny, the other around a plush dinosaur.

He was growing up so fast, she thought. Before long he would want her to pack away his stuffed lovies—
about the same time, she suspected, that he stopped letting her kiss him in front of his friends.

She crossed to the bed. His hair stuck out in every direction; his cheeks were flushed with sleep, his mouth slightly open. Melanie lifted the sheet and blanket and drew them back over him, tucking them in at the sides.

“I love you,” she whispered, bending and ever so lightly brushing her mouth against his cheek. “Sleep well.”

Melanie backed carefully out of the room, loath to take her eyes off him, spirits buoyed. She had started this thing; she would finish it. Even if that finish yielded nothing but disappointment.

With one last glance at her son, she headed for her own bedroom. There, she slipped out of her leggings and big shirt and into her pajamas. Tomorrow she would begin the next step in her investigation, following up on the information she had collected from the obituaries.

For practical reasons, she had decided to begin with the most recent deaths and work back in time. She padded into the bathroom to brush her teeth. She figured the more recent the obit, the more likely the family of the departed was to still be at the same location. She would run each name through the department's computer, checking for priors. After that, she would call the family of the departed, on what pretense she hadn't decided yet.

Melanie rinsed her mouth, spit, then repeated the process. Tomorrow, she thought, yawning again as she
flipped off the bathroom light, would be soon enough to decide that.

 

Tomorrow came in the blink of an eye. And in what seemed like two blinks she had bathed and dressed—first herself, then Casey—fed them both breakfast, dropped him off at preschool and reported for work.

There, between checking the previous night's logs and the tips that had come in on the hot line, going to the five-and-dime to photograph some vandalism that had occurred there the night before and taking complaints about the homeless in the municipal park, Melanie made her calls.

She used a different story each time, ones sometimes fashioned from information gleaned from the obituary, sometimes spun from thin air. She was an old friend from college, a sweepstakes' representative, a long lost family member.

By about the dozenth call, Melanie had to admit she was becoming adept at improvising. She had never thought of herself as a particularly slick liar—she saw now that she had been underestimating herself. Perhaps, she decided, she had never been as motivated.

Along about lunchtime, Bobby, who had been unusually quiet, asked her what she was doing.

She looked up, phone propped between her shoulder and ear, poised to dial a new number. “A bit of homework,” she said.

He arched an eyebrow, and she shook her head. “Don't ask me. You don't want to know, not officially.”

Unofficially, he already knew what she was doing.
She saw it in his expression. But if she remained silent, he could play dumb. If not, he would have to report her activities to the chief. Or, by his silence involve himself. And she didn't want him to do that, either. This was her baby, and if it blew up in her face, she didn't want anyone else injured by flying shrapnel.

Bobby glanced over his shoulder at the chief's closed door, then back at her. “You can't leave it alone, can you, Melanie? You just have to be right.”

It hurt to hear him say that. She pushed the emotion away. “No, I can't leave it alone. But it's not about wanting to be right. It's about
knowing
I'm right. Somebody's murdering these guys, Bobby. I'm not going to let him get away with it. I can't.”

“Are you sure you know what you're doing? This could blow up in your face.”

His words mirrored her thought of a moment ago, and she inclined her head. “I know. And I don't want you involved in case that happens.”

He gazed at her a moment more, then returned to his work, signaling that the subject was closed. And that he would support her with his silence.

“Bobby?” He looked up, and she smiled, grateful for his friendship. “Thanks.”

V
eronica dug the gardening shovel into the soft, black earth. The summer day was warm, the sky a cloudless blue. Almost July, it was too late to be getting her annuals in, but finding the time before now had been impossible. She'd had one trial after another; each had required considerable prep time and each had run long. She had been scrambling to keep up. So, here she was.

Veronica sat back and surveyed what she had done so far, a double row of multicolored impatiens, and she smiled. She loved gardening. Loved the smells and the colors and getting her hands good and dirty. If she hadn't felt the call of the law, she would have opened a nursery. She had already decided that if she ever tired of the prosecutor's office, she would retire to a greenhouse.

Her father would turn over in his grave. His daughter, a gardener.

Her smile broadened and she returned to her planting, sprinkling a pinch of plant food in each hole she dug, then dropping in the plant and filling the hole.

At the peal of her doorbell, Veronica glanced over her shoulder, toward the front of the house. “I'm over
here,” she called, then returned to her planting. “In the side garden.”

“Hi, Veronica.”

She turned. Mia stood hesitantly at the garden gate, one hand to her eyes to shield them from the sun, the other curved around the handle of a basket brimming with plump, red strawberries.

Veronica smiled, surprised but pleased. “Mia, hello. What brings you here?”

“I was…in the area and thought I'd stop by. I hope that's okay.”

Normally, it wouldn't have been. As much as Veronica enjoyed other people's company, she was also a solitary person. Her home was her private domain—a place to lick her wounds, plan her strategies and recharge her spirit. She didn't readily welcome others in, especially ones who dropped by unexpectedly.

But Mia was different. Veronica didn't know exactly why, but she was. “Of course it's okay. Come in.”

“I brought you something.” The other woman held out the basket of berries. “They're incredibly sweet. I tried one.”

Veronica moved her gaze to the offering, then back to Mia's. She didn't have the heart to tell her she couldn't eat them. She was deathly allergic to the fruit. “They look beautiful,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

Mia's lips curved into a stunning smile, and a feeling of affection surged through Veronica, so strong and warm it took her breath.

One moment became several and Veronica cleared her throat, embarrassed at the way she had been star
ing stupidly at the other woman. “I'll make us some iced tea.”

She stood, peeled off her work gloves, then brushed the dirt and mulch from her knees. She motioned Mia. “This way.”

Mia followed Veronica inside. As she poured them both a glass of the herbal tea, garnishing each with a lemon wedge and a sprig of fresh mint, she sensed rather than saw Mia appraising the sunny kitchen, with its navy blue tile counters, copper stove hood and cypress cabinetry. She wondered what the other woman thought of her restored Victorian bungalow.

As if reading Veronica's mind, she murmured, “It's lovely.”

Unnerved, Veronica laid an antique doily on the counter in front of Mia, then set the glass of tea on it.

“I love Dilworth,” Mia continued, referring to the section of town where Veronica lived, one of the oldest in Charlotte. “But Boyd insisted on new. And what Boyd wants, Boyd gets.” She tasted her tea. “Delicious. What is it?”

“It's called Blue Eyes. Would you like a tour of the house?”

Mia said she would and chattered as Veronica led her from room to room. Veronica used the opportunity to study the other woman. She found it odd that although Mia and Melanie were identical twins, they were as different as night and day. Where Mia was often uncertain of what she wanted and seemed to need constant attention, Melanie seemed to need no one and always spoke her mind, no matter what. Although Veronica admired that kind of confidence and
strength of will, those qualities weren't as personally appealing to her. In fact, she sometimes found herself put off by Melanie's emphatic approach to life.

They finished the tour in Veronica's light-filled bedroom. “It's so pretty!” Mia exclaimed, crossing to the antique four-poster bed. She sank onto it and ran her hand over the Victorian print coverlet.

“One of the advantages of being single,” Veronica murmured, shifting her gaze, cheeks warm, “my bedroom can be as feminine as I want it to be.”

Mia laughed and laid back against the pretty flowered print, gazing up at the ceiling. “I feel like a girl again, off at my best friend's house for a sleep-over.”

Veronica looked at her friend, her mouth going dry, her heart beginning to race. Mia was so pretty and soft-looking. She didn't have any hard edges, no brittle, world-weary veneer.

“Did you do that?” Mia asked. “Sleep-overs with girlfriends?”

“What girl didn't?”

“Melanie was always my best friend. And Ash, too.” Her smile faded, and she sat up. “Have you talked to Mel lately?”

Veronica shook her head. “No. I've called but—”

“She's been unavailable,” Mia supplied, her tone hurt. “Too busy with that stupid theory of hers.” She made a sound of frustration. “At first I thought it was intriguing. Kind of exciting. I wanted her to go for it. But I didn't think she'd drop everything in her life to pursue it. That's not right, do you think?”

Veronica didn't think it was. And she was angry with Melanie, angry about her obsession with the Dark
Angel and that in her quest for so-called justice, she was hurting people who cared about her. The people who deserved her loyalty. Including Veronica. And Mia. “It's something she feels she has to do,” she murmured, unwilling to share her real feelings with Mia. “Obviously. I can understand that. There are things in my life I feel that strongly about.”

“But do you dump the people who need you? Do you forget they even exist?”

“No,” Veronica murmured, realizing the extent of the other woman's hurt, her sense of abandonment by her sister.

She crossed to the bed and sat beside Mia. She touched her hand in an attempt to comfort. “Melanie hasn't dumped you. Or me, for that matter. And she could no more forget you exist then stop breathing. She's just…totally focused on this killer of hers. It'll be over soon, because she'll either find something or she won't. And if she does, it'll become an official investigation and part of her nine-to-five responsibilities.”

“What do I do in the meantime?” Mia asked, voice high and young sounding. “Melanie's always been the one I turned to. Always.”

“Turn to me.” When Mia looked at her in surprise, Veronica flushed, embarrassed. By her offer. And by how hopeful she was that Mia would accept it.

Veronica cleared her throat. “I mean, we're…friends and if you want, I'll be here for you.”

For a moment Mia was silent, then she smiled. The curving of her lips lit up her face and eyes, as if her melancholy had magically disappeared. “As a teen
ager, did you ever play the game Truth or Dare?” Veronica nodded, and Mia went on. “Melanie always chose truth, Ashley dare.”

Intrigued, Veronica asked. “What about you?”

“I never wanted to take either. What a wienie.” She met Veronica's eyes, almost flirtatiously. “So, ADA Ford, truth or dare, if you could have anything in the world, what would it be?”

Veronica's cheeks heated, though she wasn't sure from embarrassment over the question or her physical reaction to it—racing pulse, breathlessness, sweating palms.

What was wrong with her?

“Well, Counselor,” Mia teased. “What's it going to be?”

“Truth, if I must.” She tilted her head. “If I could have anything? It would have to be love. Real love, not infatuation or lust. Someone I could trust with all my secrets. And who trusts me the same way. Someone to be with and take care of.” Her voice thickened. “A person to take the loneliness away.”

Shocked by how much she had revealed, Veronica looked away, forcing a laugh. “So much for the hard-as-nails prosecutor. I sound like one of those teenagers you just mentioned.”

Mia reached for Veronica's hand. She laced their fingers. “Don't be embarrassed. It's what I want, too. It's what I thought I'd have when I married, but—” Mia's eyes filled with tears, and she looked away, clearly struggling not to cry.

Veronica swallowed hard. She felt herself being pulled toward this woman, as she had never been
pulled toward another. She curved her fingers tighter around Mia's. “It's your husband, isn't it? He's the reason you're here today. He's the reason you're so unhappy.”

“Yes,” she whispered, not meeting her eyes. “How did you know?”

“I've gathered from things you've said that there was…trouble. I'm here if you want to talk about it.”

“Thanks, but…” Mia shook her head. “I'm sure the last thing you want to hear about is my problems.”

“That's not true. We're friends, right? Good enough friends to listen to each other's troubles and try to help?”

When the other woman still didn't look at her, she softly called her name. Mia lifted her gaze. “Aren't we good enough friends?”

For long moments, Mia simply gazed at her, eyes swimming with unshed tears. Then she nodded. “My husband, he…he's running around on me. And when I accused him, he flew into a rage and he…hit me. That wasn't the first…wasn't the only…”

Mia's words trailed off and Veronica sucked in a sharp breath, fighting against the rage stirring inside her, the rage that sometimes emerged, so strong and hot it all but blinded her. She tamped it back, though not without considerable effort. “You don't have to put up with that, Mia. And you shouldn't.”

“That's what Melanie says.” She laughed self-consciously and wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Ash tells me to get a grip.”

In Veronica's opinion, Ashley was the last person
who should tell anybody to get a grip, but she kept that to herself.

“There's nothing wrong with you.
Nothing.
” Veronica caught Mia's hands and squeezed them for emphasis. “You haven't left him, because you're scared. Of him. Of leaving him. Because he's made you think you need him. Because he's made you think you're not smart enough or strong enough to make it without him. That's what men like your husband do.”

Mia shook her head, expression anguished. “You don't understand. You couldn't. Look at you, an assistant district attorney, smart and successful. What have I done since I got married? Shopped? Lunched?”

“Stop it, Mia. Right now.” Veronica caught her hands again. “What you're saying, it's what he wants you to think. How he's programmed you to think. He gets off on controlling you, on knowing he's turned you into a timid little mouse, afraid of her own shadow. It's part of his sickness. And it's not true.”

“You don't know! How could you?”

“How?” Veronica repeated. “Because I was you. A long time ago, I was married to the same kind of man you are. He belittled and criticized me. To break me down. To undermine my belief in myself and my abilities. It got to the point I was afraid to make any decision without consulting him. I asked him what I should eat, wear, how I should have my hair styled. And the more I needed him, the more he belittled me.”

Her voice shook; she steadied it. “I gave him everything. Even my self-respect. And he cheated on me
with another woman. He laughed at me when I confronted him, then taunted me with his affair.”

She had Mia's full attention now. The other woman was staring at her, eyes wide with disbelief. “What happened?” she asked, voice shaking. “How did you find the courage to leave him?”

“I didn't. He died in an accident.” Veronica looked at her and Mia's joined hands, noticing how soft and white Mia's were, how flawless her skin. She swallowed hard and dragged her gaze away. “So you see, I wasn't strong. And it's only with hindsight that I can see what was happening to me. What he had done to me. That's why I know what your husband's doing to you.”

She took a deep breath and looked Mia straight in the eye. “You don't need him, Mia. You'll see, I promise you will. Because I'll help you.”