All Fall Down (24 page)

H
er sister was home. A part of Melanie had prayed she wouldn't be, so she could avoid the inevitable a little longer.

“Melanie?” The smile that had automatically brightened Mia's face at the sight of her twin faded. She moved her gaze between Melanie, Connor and the two investigators. “What's wrong?”

Melanie held a hand out. “Mia, honey, can we come in?”

She shook her head, the color draining from her face. “Not until you tell me—” She brought a hand to her mouth. “Is it…Ashley? Has something—”

“It's Boyd, Mia. He's dead.”

She stared blankly at Melanie, her already pale face becoming pasty. “Dead?” she repeated, swaying slightly. “But how…that can't…I don't understand.”

“Mia, he—” Melanie took a deep breath. “He was murdered last night.”

A small sound escaped her sister, high and breathless. She brought a hand to her mouth, swaying again. Connor stepped forward, taking her arm to steady her.

“I'm all right,” she whispered. “I… Come in.”

She led them to the living room, motioning them to take a seat, then, as if her legs couldn't support her
another moment, she sank onto the white couch. Melanie took the seat beside her. The two investigators also sat, but Connor remained standing.

“How?” she asked, looking at Melanie. “Who…”

Melanie reached across and covered her sister's clasped hands with one of her own. They were cold as ice. “We don't know who,” she answered, choosing to ignore the how part of her sister's question for now. “The detectives have some questions they need you to answer. You feel like you're up to it right now?”

When her sister nodded, Melanie introduced her to Connor and the two CMPD investigators.

The minute she did, Pete took over.

“Mrs. Donaldson,” he began, “I'm sorry to have to disturb you at a time like this, but in a murder case every moment is precious.”

“I understand.” She curled her fingers tighter around Melanie's. “How can I help you?”

The man plucked his spiral notebook from his left breast pocket. “When did you last see your husband, Mrs. Donaldson?”

“Yesterday morning, before he left for work.”

“And not since?”

“No.” She cleared her throat. “But I didn't expect to. He had a National Heart Surgeons' Association meeting to attend last night. It was being held in Columbia, and since the meetings often go late, he had planned to spend the night there.”

“I see.”

“I talked to him during the day, however.”

“And what time was that?”

She drew her eyebrows together in thought. “About four in the afternoon. He called to remind me he would be out.”

The investigator made a notation in his book, then met her eyes once more. “Did your husband have meetings like this often? Ones that kept him away from home at night?”

Mia glanced at Melanie, then back at the investigator. “Yes.”

“Away all night?”

“Not overnight, no. Just until very late.”

“Would you categorize your marriage as a happy one, Mrs. Donaldson?”

Melanie stiffened slightly, knowing that Pete was testing Mia, trying to catch her in a lie. Although standard interrogation practice, this was her sister, not a real suspect, not a criminal.

Mia lowered her head. “No,” she whispered.

“No what?”

She lifted her gaze. Melanie saw that her eyes were bright with tears. “No, it wasn't a happy marriage. He was…I think he was having an affair.”

The two CMPD investigators exchanged glances, as if they had just learned some important piece of information. Melanie knew it was a tactic, a way to try to unsettle a witness by making her feel she had said something more incriminating than she had.

It worked. Mia squirmed in her seat, looking suddenly guilty. Melanie sucked in a quick, deep breath, biting back the nasty comment that flew to her lips. She darted a look at Connor and found him moving
absently around the room, seemingly paying no attention to the questioning.

“You don't know for sure?” Pete asked.

“He never…admitted it, but I…a wife
knows,
Detective.”

“I see.” The investigator coughed, clearing his throat. “When you say that he never admitted having an affair, does that mean that you confronted him with your suspicions?”

“Yes.”

“And how did he respond?”

She looked at Melanie in question. Melanie nodded slightly and Mia continued. “He flew into a rage and he…he struck me.”

Connor, standing at the baby grand piano, studying the framed photographs that decorated its top, stopped and looked over his shoulder at Mia. The two CMPD investigators exchanged knowing glances. Melanie shifted in her seat, uncomfortable for her sister. Humiliated for her.

“He hit you? Was this something he did often?”

“I…no, he…” She began to tremble. “My husband's been murdered!” she cried. “Why are you asking me this? How can it matter?”

“We feel it's pertinent, Mrs. Donaldson.” The investigator smiled in an attempt to win her cooperation. “Just a few more questions. Do you know who your husband was seeing? Do you have a suspicion?”

“No.”

“Where were you last night?”

“Me?” She looked surprised. “Home.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

Melanie knew the drill. Mia would be a prime suspect because statistics proved that the majority of murders were committed by people close to the victim—family, friends, business associates.

“Did you know your husband was into kinky sex?”

The blood drained from her face. “I'm sorry, what did you—”

“Kinky sex. S&M, bondage, that kind of thing?”

“No.” She shook her head. “No.”

“You two didn't—”

She looked horrified. “God, no.”

“Is there anyone who can account for your whereabouts last night?”

“I told you, I was alone.” Mia's voice took on a high, hysterical edge. She turned to Melanie. “You believe me, don't you?”

“Of course I do.” She shot the investigator an angry glance, then turned back to her sister. Depending on her next answer, Melanie was going to suggest an end to this session until Mia consulted an attorney. “Think, Mia. Did you talk to anyone on the phone? Did anyone stop by or—”

“I did.” Mia brought a hand to her mouth. “I talked to a girlfriend. Veronica Ford. Twice.”

“Do you remember what time?” Melanie asked the question, knowing that Pete would and that it would be better coming from her.

She thought a moment. “She called me about ten. Then again at…I don't know, twelve-thirty or so.”

“Twelve-thirty? On a weeknight?” Roger, previously silent, piped in. “Isn't that a little odd?”

“Odd?” She looked confused. Disoriented. “Veronica knew I'd be up because…because I was upset. She was worried about me.”

“Why was that?”

She stared blankly at him a moment, then shook her head. “My husband was having an affair…he was gone for the night…I just figured, you know.”

“That he was spending the night with his mistress?” She nodded. “But you didn't check up on him?”

She sank back against the cushions, as if suddenly, completely drained. “No,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “It wouldn't have made any difference.”

Melanie's heart broke for her sister. She squeezed her fingers reassuringly. “I think my sister's had enough for now. Why don't we call it quits?”

Pete scanned his notes. “I can live with that. Let me just make sure I have all this down. So, you talked to your friend—”

“ADA Veronica Ford,” Melanie inserted, knowing the association would be an asset for her sister.

He stopped. “Excuse me?”

“For your records. Assistant District Attorney Veronica Ford.”

“I see.” He cleared his throat and Roger shifted in his chair. Connor caught her eye and grinned. “You see or talk to anyone else?”

“No, I—” Mia bit the words back, straightening. “Wait, yes. I saw my neighbor, Mrs. Whitman. About twelve-fifteen. She was calling her cat when I was out on the deck, smoking a cigarette.”

Thank God for habits, Melanie thought. Between
the calls and Mrs. Whitman and her cat, Mia had an alibi.

“One last question, Mrs. Donaldson. Did you love your husband?”

“For heaven's sake!” Melanie shot to her feet. This had gone far beyond a simple inquiry. And she'd had enough. “What kind of question is—”

“It's okay, Mel,” Mia murmured, cutting her off. She looked the man straight in the eye. “Yes, Detective, I loved my husband very much.”

Pete shut the spiral and tucked it back into his pocket. He stood and Roger followed him to his feet. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Donaldson. We'll be in touch.”

“Wait!” Mia cried, standing. “How did he…you never said…how he—”

“Died?”

“Yes.”

Mia clasped her hands tightly together. So tightly, Melanie saw, that her knuckles turned white. Melanie laid a hand on her shoulder for support.

“He was smothered, Mrs. Donaldson. His tastes got him into a situation he couldn't get out of.”

B
y the time Melanie turned onto her street later that day, it was after seven o'clock and growing dark. She had stayed with Mia until late that afternoon, when Veronica had been able to get away and take over. Any hesitation she had felt about leaving Mia in Veronica's care had slipped away when she saw her sister's response to the other woman—it had been obvious that she wanted her there, that she found her presence a comfort.

With a promise to check on her later—which she had done several times already—Melanie had left Mia's and headed straight for CMPD headquarters for an update on the investigation. After a surprisingly agreeable Harrison and Stemmons had filled her in, she'd made her way to the WPD. Her chief had taken one look at her and told her to get the hell home. When she had tried to argue, he'd said he didn't want to see her face for thirty-six hours. Period.

Even Stan had been conciliatory. He had heard about Boyd's murder and called, offering to pick Casey up from school and keep him the night, the week—or for as long as she needed.

Figuring his motive might be anything but selfless,
she had accepted his offer to take Casey for the night, then reassured him she was doing just fine.

Yeah, right. She was a hairbreadth from falling apart.

A long hot soak in the tub, she thought. A glass of wine and a sandwich. She would be as good as new in no time at all.

Melanie curled her fingers tighter around the steering wheel. Sure she would be. As long as she never closed her eyes again. Because every time she did, she saw Boyd, laid out in a perverted X, his skin pasty gray in death.

The truth was, she would never be as good as new again.

Melanie thought of Connor, of the things he must have seen in his years with the Bureau, the offenses against nature, to women and children. To families. She used to think she was tough—that she could handle it. She didn't anymore. Not after today.

How, she wondered, nearing her house, did Connor handle the atrocities he had seen? How was he able to sleep at night? Had he found a way to store them in a box in his brain, lid shut and sealed tight? She needed him to teach her that trick.

As if her thoughts had conjured him, he was there. Sitting on her front steps, a pizza box and a bottle of wine beside him. When she turned into her driveway, he stood. And smiled.

A wave of pure, sweet pleasure washed over her, dispelling for that one moment all the ugliness of the day. And in that single moment she realized she had
never been happier to see anyone than she was to see him.

The truth of that surprised her, but only briefly. Sometime over the past weeks, she acknowledged, Connor Parks had ceased being a colleague and had become a friend.

He ambled across the lawn to her Jeep. “Hi,” he said, opening the door for her. “Figured you'd be hungry but too tired to fix anything but a peanut butter sandwich.”

Melanie swung out of the Jeep. She grinned. “You figured right. Except that I'm starving and we're out of peanut butter, so it was going to be a jelly sandwich. Grape jelly.”

He made a face. They fell into step together. “It's a good thing I happened along, then.”

“A lifesaver, really.”

While she unlocked the front door, he retrieved the pizza boxes—she saw now that he had two, one large and one small—and the wine.

“Casey's with his dad?”

It was dim inside the house, and she flipped on a light. “Considering the day, I thought it would be best.”

“I brought him a plain cheese, just in case. I know how kids can sometimes be about food. Purists.”

“That's my Casey.” Melanie smiled, touched by Connor's thoughtfulness.

“As for us,” he continued, “I brought the biggest, nastiest everything pizza they had. They call it the Kitchen Sink.”

“Just the way I like 'em.” Melanie held out her
hands for the boxes and bottle. “You have a seat and I'll get everything ready.”

“Absolutely not.” He pointed at the couch. “You, sit. Feet up. I'll gather together whatever we need.”

“But—”

“No buts, that was an order.” He grabbed a magazine from the rack by the couch, laid it on the coffee table, then set the pizza on it. She watched him, arms folded across her middle. At her look, he arched his eyebrows. “I thought we'd eat in here. That okay?”

“Get real. I have a four-year-old.”

“So, sit. And stop giving me the evil eye. I'm sure I can muddle through this.”

She gave up and sank onto the sofa. “I didn't know you FBI guys were so bossy.”

“Oh, yeah.” He stopped in the kitchen doorway and grinned back at her. “We take a course in it. After all, we have to be bossy if we're going to push you local yokels around.”

She tossed a throw pillow at him, missing because he ducked into the other room.

She leaned her head back against the overstuffed cushion and closed her eyes. As she did, Boyd's image filled her head, and she snapped them back open.
So much for rest and relaxation.

Connor appeared at the kitchen doorway. “You have a corkscrew?”

“Drawer under the phone.”

He nodded, then disappeared into the kitchen once more. A few moments later he reappeared with a wineglass and the open bottle of wine. He poured her a glass of the merlot and set it in front of her.

She frowned. “I wish you'd let me help you.”

“Can't do it.” He indicated the wine. “Taste, please. If it's not good, I'll have the salesman's head. He promised you'd love it.”

She did as he'd requested, then made a sound of pleasure. “Delicious.”

“Good. I would have hated hurting that guy. Be right back.”

He returned in moments with plates, napkins, eating utensils and a glass of Coke for himself. He served them both a piece of the pie, which was, indeed, the biggest, nastiest everything pizza she had ever seen. Never a wimp about eating, she dug in.

They ate in comfortable silence a few minutes, the food and wine almost instantly reviving her. Melanie felt herself coming back to life, her energy returning, the blanket of disbelief and despair lifting.

She finished her slice of pizza and sat back, cradling the bowl of her wineglass between her palms. “Thank you,” she said. “I needed that more than I even realized.”

He helped himself to another piece of the pie. “Figured as much.”

“Been there, done that?”

“Too many times to count.”

They fell silent again. Melanie leaned her head back, content to sip her wine and watch him eat.

“How's Mia?” he asked finally, wiping his mouth with the paper napkin.

“As well as can be expected. Veronica offered to stay with her. I stayed until she got there. The doctor prescribed sleeping pills, just in case.” Melanie
plucked a piece of sausage from the debris left on her plate. “You were quiet today. Particularly at my sister's.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It's my way. I like to absorb my surroundings. What's being said. People's body language.”

She stiffened. “Mia didn't have anything to do with Boyd's murder.” She met his eyes defiantly, challenging him to disagree.

He didn't. “Nor was Boyd's murder related to Joli's. We're dealing with two different killers. I don't have a doubt about that.”

“You're still thinking this was a copycat?”

“A very skilled one.” He pushed his plate away. “Think about it, Melanie. This type of crime is almost always gender specific and sexually motivated. Bundy killed college coeds. Dahmer, young gay men. The list goes on and on. In terms of motivation, why would this killer suddenly change the sex of his victim?”

Melanie couldn't argue with Connor's logic. The thought had crossed her mind back at the motel but had been forced out by other concerns. “What about the duct tape and champagne?”

“The champagne label was different. Joli's killer would have chosen the same kind. In this type of murder, the killer's ritual is very specific.” Connor fell silent a moment, then continued. “This scene was completely staged. Joli Andersen's killer was disorganized. The scene was littered with all kinds of evidence, biological, trace, you name it. On the other hand, Boyd's killer was extremely organized. The
scene was as clean as a hospital room. My bet is they find nothing.”

“And the postmortem penetration of the body?”

“Halfhearted, as if for appearance only. I haven't a doubt the medical examiner will confirm my opinion.”

Melanie mulled over what he'd said. Add in the blindfold and suddenly the inconsistencies began to outweigh the similarities. “But why copy Joli Andersen's murder?” Melanie brought her glass of wine to her lips. “And why my brother-in-law?”

“I didn't know why at first, either. I didn't know who. Not until we were at your sister's house.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “You know who?”

“Think about it, Mel.” He leaned toward her. “You know, too.”

She opened her mouth to tell him she didn't. To tell him her powers of observation weren't as keen as his.

She shut it without speaking, because in that moment, she did know. It came upon her like a thunder-clap. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Of course. The Dark Angel.”

“Bull's-eye. Boyd was a batterer. And he died just as the others have—a victim of his own weaknesses.”

“I can't believe I didn't see it right off.” She set her wineglass on the table, then clasped her shaking hands in her lap. “I should have.”

“Give yourself a break, Melanie. You had a little more to deal with today than just being a cop.”

She sat back, going over the events of the day, the facts associated with the murder, the evidence they had amassed so far. She brought a hand to her mouth. “You don't think…could Boyd have been targeted be
cause of me? I'm one of the lead investigators on the case and my name's been in the media a lot. How weird is it that she would strike in my family?”

“I considered that, too. But I don't think so. Because of the way she works, the time she needs to get her victim into place, our Angel had probably already targeted Boyd when you broke the case.”

He leaned forward. “Do the math. First, she had to zero in on him, then pinpoint his particular weakness and insinuate herself into his life. She had to earn his trust. After all, this guy's a surgeon at a prominent medical center, he'd become adept at keeping his other life a secret, he wasn't about to play whip me–beat me with just anybody. I suspect he was extremely careful. And so was she. We've been at this six weeks. She needed more time than that in Boyd's particular case.”

Melanie took it all in, weighing what she knew to be true against Connor's opinion, fitting the pieces together. She brought a hand to her mouth. “Oh my God, I just realized…if we're right about the Angel's motivation—”

“Then Mia knows the killer.”

An involuntary shudder moved up her spine. “The CMPD guys aren't going to buy any of this.”

“Not at first. They won't want to. But the differences between this case and the Andersen case are going to become too obvious to ignore as they process the scene. They'll be forced on board with us.”

Melanie let out a long breath. “We have another victim. Fresh blood.”

“I'm sorry.”

She lifted her gaze to Connor's. “I never liked him. I thought there was something
off
about him, you know? Something dishonest. But he was Mia's choice, not mine.”

She looked away. It felt wrong to be talking about Boyd this way. The man had been murdered. But it was the way she felt and she needed to say the words, to say them to Connor. “He hurt my sister. I hated him for that. A couple times, I was so angry, I thought I could have…hurt him myself. Even with all that…to die as he did—” Her voice broke. “It was…horrible.”

Connor took her into his arms. She looped hers around his middle and laid her head against his chest, comforted. She didn't cry, though a part of her longed to.

“I wish I could make it better for you,” he murmured after a time.

“I know. Thank you.” Melanie tilted her head back to meet his gaze. “How do you handle it?” she asked softly. “How do you see the things you do and manage to…keep it all in perspective?” Her throat closed over the words, and she cleared it. “How do you shut your eyes without seeing…them. All the victims?”

“It gets easier,” he murmured. “You get numb. And if you're lucky, when you sleep, you don't dream.”

He pushed her hair back from her face, his fingers dragging against her scalp, massaging. It felt wonderful.

Connor made her feel wonderful.

“I admire you,” she said, speaking from her heart. “What you do. The way you—”

He cut her off with a bitter laugh. “Don't admire me, Melanie. Most days, I just manage to hang on. To not embarrass the Bureau, to not take a drink, to not sink into a pit of cynicism and self-pity. I'm not handling it, it's handling me.”

It wasn't true. He was a strong man. A good man. One who felt deeply, too deeply, perhaps. Melanie reached up and cupped his face in her palms. She searched his gaze, seeing the shadows behind the eyes, the longing. For companionship. For a connection between two people, a spark that would ignite—and maybe, just maybe, chase the cold away.

She wanted to be with him that way. Tonight. She wanted to make love with him.

That truth filled her with a sense of wonder. Disbelief. Delight. It had been so long since she had wanted a man, so long since she had wanted to connect with another human being in that most intimate of ways.

She had wondered if she ever would again.

Melanie trailed her hands across his shoulders and down his arms. She caught his hands with her own—she laced their fingers and stood, drawing him to his feet. Without question, explanation or doubt, she led him to her bedroom, to her bed.