All Fall Down (4 page)

“Silly question, Mel. You feel guilty because Mia was Dad's whipping girl.”

“That's nonsense. Why should I—”

“Because even though the two of you looked exactly alike, he picked her to hurt.”

Feeling her sister's words like a blow, Melanie took an involuntary step backward, then swung away from her sister. Legs shaking, she crossed to the door to the family room, listened for Casey, then carefully eased the door three-quarters of the way shut. “That wasn't my fault,” she said finally, heavily. “It was Father's. I have no reason to feel guilty over it.”

“Of course not. But you do. You're still trying to make up to her for you being the golden child.”

“You don't understand. You've never understood.”

Ashley's mouth thinned. “Because I was never a member of your little twin's club. Right? Not Ashley, the one who was different.”

“Mia and I don't have a club and we've never excluded you, Ash.”

“Oh, please.” Her voice thickened. “I was the third sister. The third wheel. I still am.”

Melanie made a sound of frustration. “You make me crazy when you're like this.”

Ashley took a step toward her, then stopped. “Has it ever occurred to you that it's because I'm different that I see so clearly? You, Mia, Dad…everything?”

“Mia needs me. She's more sensitive than either of us. More vulnerable. That's why Dad singled her out, he knew she wouldn't fight back. And that's why I had to stop him.”

Ashley opened her mouth to respond, but the phone rang, cutting her off. Melanie answered. “Oh, hello, Stan.”

Ashley made a face and grabbed her purse. “I should go.”

“Stan, could you hold a moment?” She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Please stay.”

Ashley shook her head, her expression—for one fleeting moment—lost. “I'll call.”

Melanie held a hand out, regretting their argument. “Coffee on Friday?”

“I'll try. No promises.”

“I love you.”

Ashley smiled. “Ditto, kiddo.” She started out the door, then stopped and looked back, her expression
wicked. “Tell the prick I said hello and to burn in hell.”

Melanie watched her go, then turned her attention back to the phone. “What can I do for you, Stan?”

“Which one of your sisters is there?” Stan asked, ignoring her question. “Wimpy or bitchy?”

Melanie dismissed his barb. “Ashley was. She just left. She asked me to tell you hello.”

“I'll bet. More like, to burn in hell.”

Melanie choked on a laugh. “What do you want, Stan?”

“That thing today, the murder, were you involved?”

“Involved?” she repeated, purposely playing dumb.

He made a sound of annoyance. “With the investigation. Are you involved?”

“The crime occurred in Whistlestop. Yes, I'm involved in the investigation.” She smiled to herself, aware of his ire. “But as I'm sure you can understand, I'm not at liberty to discuss the details.”

He swore. “I couldn't care less about the details. I don't want my wife having anything to do with—”

“Ex-wife,” she corrected. “You're Shelley's problem now, thank God. You haven't forgotten about her, have you?”

“Cut the crap, Melanie. Of course I haven't forgotten about Shelley.”

“And as your ex,” she went on, “you have absolutely no say in my life. None. What I do is my business. Only mine. Got that?”

“Except when what you do is potentially harmful to my son.”

“
Our
son is fine. Happy, healthy and loved. My involvement in a murder investigation is no more harmful to him than your legal wranglings are.”

“That's where our opinions differ.”

She laughed without humor. “Our opinions differ on everything, Stan. If there's nothing else, it's late and I'm hungry and tired.”

“Oh, but there is. We need to talk about the future, Melanie. Casey's future.” He paused for a moment, then went on. “He's starting real school next year.”

She glanced at her watch, then longingly at her salad. “I'm aware of that, Stan.”

“Then you're also aware that I live in the city's best school district?”

It took a second for his words to sink in. As they did, a flicker of fear burst to life inside her. She tamped it down. He couldn't mean what she thought he did—she was jumping to conclusions, overreacting. After all, they had been divorced three years, and in that time Stan had seemed more than satisfied to be an every-other-weekend father.

“The best?” she countered. “By whose standards? The schools in my district are highly rated. Not as fancy, maybe, but—”

“Come on, Melanie,” he said softly and patiently, as if he were speaking to a willful child, “don't you think it's time for us to set our personal needs aside and ask ourselves what's best for Casey.”

“You mean
who's
best for him, don't you?”

“Maybe I do.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and counted to ten. She was living the nightmare that had dogged her the en
tire first year of her divorce—that Stan was going to try to take custody away from her.

She gripped the receiver so tightly her fingers went numb. “I already know who's best for him. Me. I'm his mother, Stan.”

“And I'm his father. I can offer him a stable, two-parent home in one of Charlotte's finest communities. Which, by the way, is gated for security.”

“Let's not forget a swimming pool, tennis lessons and lunches at the club,” she said sarcastically. “And maybe while you're at it, you should sweeten the pot with a yearly trip to Europe?”

“Those things are important.”

“What's more important than love, Stan? Than constancy? He's been with me since the beginning, a change now would confuse him. Besides, all his friends from preschool—”

“Kids adjust.”

He said it so casually, so carelessly. This was Casey's life they were talking about. His feelings. That the man could blow them off so easily made her blood boil. “You son-of-a-bitch,” she whispered, voice shaking. “All you care about is yourself.”

“That's your opinion.”

“I won't let you do this.”

“You can't stop me.”

“Mom?”

She looked over to find Casey in the doorway, eyes wide with alarm. The phone must have awakened him—if he'd ever fallen asleep. She pulled herself together and smiled reassuringly at him. “I'll be off in
just a second, honey. Crawl back into bed and I'll come snuggle with you. Okay?”

Casey hesitated a moment, then did as she asked. She returned her attention to her ex-husband. “It's inappropriate for us to have this conversation right now. I'll have to get back to you.”

“This isn't going to go away, Melanie. I intend to sue you for custody of our son. And I intend to win.”

T
he conference room in the Law Enforcement Center was too hot. The personalities around the long, oval table too strong. Each person accustomed to having their way. Melanie moved her gaze from one face to another. Charlotte's mayor, Ed Pinkston, and Chief Lyons of the CMPD, her own chief, the district attorney. Representatives from all their offices, as well as the SBI—the State Bureau of Investigation. Connor Parks. A man with him, also FBI, she guessed. Whistlestop's mayor was not in attendance, a fact Melanie found curious. Or ominous, she amended, shifting her gaze to her chief's set face.

They had been called together that morning because the daughter of Charlotte's most prominent citizen had been dead a week now and that citizen was demanding answers. So was the press.

And they were no closer to an answer than they had been the day after her murder.

There would be no glad-handing here today. No give-and-take, no backslapping and mutual support. Instead, a head or two might roll—Melanie's included. Even the CMPD guys looked apprehensive.

The Charlotte mayor stood to bring the meeting to order. Before he could, the conference-room door
opened. Cleve Andersen and another man walked through. An uncomfortable hush fell over the room.

“Sorry I'm late,” Andersen said briskly, moving to the head of the table, taking a place beside Mayor Pinkston.

The mayor cleared his throat. “Cleve, we didn't expect—”

“I thought it best,” the man interrupted. “The decisions made here today affect me. My family.” He smiled, the curving of his lips automatic, the consummate player doing his thing. “As you know, I'm not one to let others lead.”

He indicated the man who had entered with him. “My attorney, Bob Braxton. Now—” he settled into his seat and turned his gaze to the room's other occupants “—shall we begin?”

Mayor Pinkston looked as helpless as a fish flopping on a dock, hook still embedded in its mouth. Clearly, the politician didn't have the guts to oppose the more powerful man.

Apparently, Connor Parks did. “Excuse me,” he said, standing, facing the businessman. “With all due respect, Mr. Andersen, you don't belong here.”

The room fell quiet. All eyes focused on Andersen. He stood stiffly, his chiseled features tight with restraint. Or dislike. “Young man, my daughter is the topic of this meeting.”

“Exactly the reason you shouldn't be here. We don't have the time to tiptoe around your feelings. Go home to your grieving family, Mr. Andersen. That's where you belong. It's where you can do some good.”

An ugly flush climbed up Cleve Andersen's pale
face. Melanie held her breath. Parks had verbalized what each person at the table had certainly been thinking. Although Melanie applauded his courage, she wondered at his sanity. He hadn't exactly soft-pedaled his opinion or couched it in deferential terms.

“I don't recognize you,” Andersen said. “What's your name?”

“Agent Connor Parks, FBI.”

“Well, then, Agent Parks, let me tell you something. I didn't get where I am today by sitting on the sidelines and waiting for others to make things happen. I take charge. I make things happen.”

“Again, with all due respect, this isn't big business. This is law enforcement. Something you know nothing about. I'm afraid this time you're going to have to take that seat on the sidelines. Please, let us do our jobs.”

“Cleve,” the mayor said gently, laying a hand on the man's shoulder. “Agent Parks is right. No father should hear the things we must discuss in this room today. It would be better if you left.”

The man swayed slightly on his feet. His mask of confidence and determination slipped, giving all a glimpse of the man underneath, one in great pain, one hanging on by an emotional thread.

Andersen looked at Ed Pinkston. “I've already endured the worst a father could,” he said softly, the slightest quaver in his voice. “I was told my daughter was dead. That she had been murdered.”

He moved his gaze around the table, from one face to the next, stopping, finally, on Connor Parks's. “I want her killer caught. I want justice. And I'll have it, no matter the cost. Is that understood?”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned to his attorney. “Bob, I'll trust you to handle this from here.”

Like the room's other occupants, Melanie watched the man stride toward the exit. She ached for him, for his pain. She understood his motive for coming today—sitting back and waiting would be hell on earth for a take-charge man like Andersen.

When the door clicked shut behind him, several moments of awkward silence ensued. Then the mayor cleared his throat and called the meeting back to order. After chastising Parks for the tone with which he had addressed the victim's father, he opened the floor to the two chiefs of police. They shared every step of the investigation so far—who had been interviewed, what had been gleaned from those interviews—and they assured the politicians no stone was being left unturned.

“I don't want to hear about turning over stones,” Pinkston snapped. “I want to hear about a suspect. I want to hear you tell me you're going to catch this sick bastard and I want you to tell me how you're going to do it.”

Chief Lyons of the CMPD turned to Pete Harrison, his lead investigator. “Harrison?”

The man nodded. “We have a suspect. Apparently, the night Joli was murdered she spent the early part of the evening in a club with friends. There was a guy there who was hitting on her most of the night. Really coming on strong. She wasn't interested and humiliated him in front of a group of people. Called him loser and told him to crawl back under whatever rock he'd emerged from.

“He blew his top. Told her he'd make her sorry and
stormed off. A witness, one of the club's patrons, says she saw the guy in the parking lot later that night, around the time Joli left. Unfortunately, nobody knew who he was. He'd never been in that club before, paid with cash. And nobody's seen him since.”

Andersen's attorney made a sound of disbelief. “You're saying you can't find this guy?”

“Haven't found him yet,” Harrison corrected. “We will, trust me. We've got descriptions of him with every bartender in Mecklenburg County. He'll resurface.”

“And when he does,” Harrison's partner, Roger Stemmons, added, “we'll be there.”

“I hate to rain on anyone's parade, but I don't think we should pin our hopes on this guy,” Agent Parks offered. “He sounds like a disorganized inadequate, same as our UNSUB, but the—”

“Excuse me,” Mayor Pinkston interrupted. “Our what?”

“Unknown subject. As I was saying, the other descriptions we have of him and of his behavior don't fit the profile.”

For the second time that morning, all attention focused on Connor Parks. “Profile?” the mayor asked.

“Mumbo jumbo,” Stemmons muttered, tossing his pencil onto the table.

“A psychological portrait of a killer,” Connor told the mayor. “We create this portrait by comparing what we know about criminal behavior to the details of a particular crime scene. They're quite accurate.”

Connor looked at Stemmons, his expression bland. “Actually, there's nothing metaphysical or mystical
about profiling. Our conclusions are based on data collected from actual crimes and hundreds of hours of interviews with known serial killers and rapists.”

Stemmons scowled. The mayor settled more comfortably in his chair. “So, tell us about this UNSUB, Agent Parks. What kind of man are we dealing with here?”

“He's a white male,” Connor began. “Twenty-five to thirty-five years of age. He's handsome and in good shape. He works out, most probably at a health club.

“He's a professional man, doctor, lawyer, accountant,” he went on. “If not successful, he has the trappings of success—the clothes, the car. A BMW is my guess. But one of the smaller ones, a 300 series, maybe. A few years old.”

One of the SBI guys inquired about Connor's reasoning; he responded with the same theory he'd presented to Melanie at the scene a week ago—Joli Andersen had been both beautiful and rich and since it appeared she had gone with this UNSUB willingly, he would have had to meet certain requirements.

Melanie spoke up. “He's right about that. From interviews with her friends and co-workers, I learned that although Joli was an outrageous flirt, she was picky about who she dated. She had real high standards. He had to be good-looking. And he had to be well off.”

“Exactly,” Connor murmured, then continued. “His neighbors would describe him as nice. Quiet, maybe even shy. He lives or works near the crime scene, he picked the Sweet Dreams Motel for that reason.”

“How near?” Chief Lyons asked.

“Three or four miles is my guess. But no more than ten.”

That caused a ripple of interest at the table, but Connor ignored it and moved on. “As evidenced by the whore/madonna aspects of his ritual and the fact that he didn't penetrate the victim naturally, he had a strained but obsessive relationship with his mother. He has a history of broken relationships with women. If married, the union is an unhappy one.”

“What about priors?” Bobby Taggerty asked.

“Good question. If there's anything, it's nothing serious. No convictions. He frequents prostitutes, you may find a charge for soliciting.” Connor fell silent a moment. “This UNSUB hasn't killed before, but he will again.”

A buzz moved around the conference table. Harrison spoke up first. “You sure about that, Parks?”

“Positive. He's been nurturing his fantasy for a long time. With Joli the fantasy got out of control, because unlike the hookers he'd experimented with, Joli stopped behaving as he wanted her to. In an effort to control her, he killed her. Killing her provided him with a powerful sexual jolt. He's going to want that again. He's going to crave it.”

“We could check out the hospitals,” Harrison murmured, “the doctors' and lawyers' offices in that area, start putting together a list of names of guys who fit this description.”

“Do the same with the health clubs, cross-reference the lists, see how many matches we have,” Stemmons added.

Connor nodded his agreement. “I also suggest questioning the area prostitutes. Like I said, our UNSUB's been working out the details of this fantasy for some time. He's practiced it on hookers. There are girls out there who know this guy by his ritual.”

The man with Connor stood and introduced himself as Steve Rice, the Special Agent in Charge, or SAC, of the Charlotte field office of the FBI. “We should stake out the cemetery where Joli's buried,” he said. “Set up video cameras. This kind of killer routinely visits his victim's grave as a way of reliving his fantasy. It's so stimulating for them, we often catch them masturbating.”

“Jesus,” Braxton muttered, looking as sickened as he sounded.

“If the stakeout yields nothing,” Rice continued, “try flushing him out by engineering a big story about Joli in the
Charlotte Observer,
a human-interest piece. Get them to run a couple good pictures. Get him stirred up, excited. And keep those cameras trained on her grave. Trust me, it works.”

For several minutes various other investigative avenues were discussed. When the discussion died down, Mayor Pinkston stepped in once more. “I'm encouraged by what we've done here today,” he began, the consummate politician easing into his shtick.

While he pontificated, Melanie's thoughts drifted to her own problems. Problem, she corrected. Just one. Stan's intention to gain custody of Casey.

Melanie brought a hand to the back of her neck and massaged the knotted muscles. She had waited several days before calling Stan back. She had used the time
to compose herself and prepare her case. She had been ready to calmly reason with him, to argue elegantly, to beg if forced to. Instead, she'd lost her temper and ended up shouting at him.

What was wrong with her? Why did she allow him to push her buttons that way? She swallowed a sigh. It had been the same during their marriage. She had been fire, he ice. She had argued with passion, he with coolheaded logic. Whenever they had argued, which had been often, the more passionate she had become, the more coolly rational he—in a never-ending, escalating cycle. By the end she'd realized that he had used his ability to disassociate from his emotions as a way to manipulate her. And as a way to constantly prove his superiority.

It had worked. After arguing, she'd always felt like a shrewish, raving lunatic.

She had promised herself she would never again allow him to get to her that way. She had fallen right into his trap anyway.

“—a few more administrative details we need to discuss. The first is the two-force involvement in this investigation.”

At that, Melanie looked up. She glanced at Bobby. She saw by his expression that he knew what was coming, too, and her stomach sank.

“We've decided to make a change. We feel strongly that by dividing the investigation between the two forces, we're watering it down. As of now, the CMPD is officially the force of record in the Andersen murder. They'll be aided, of course, by the FBI and SBI,
but they'll bear the major responsibility for the investigation.”

“That's bullshit!” Melanie said before she could stop herself. She got to her feet, face hot. “Pardon my outburst, Mr. Mayor, but the murder occurred in Whistlestop. We are prepared and eager to do whatever necessary to see that Joli Andersen's killer is brought to justice.”

“I'm sure you are, Officer May. And believe me, your chief made a convincing argument in favor of awarding the WPD the case. However, we feel we must go with the experience on this one.”

“But—”

“The decision's been made, Officer May,” he said, working to look sympathetic but achieving an irritated expression instead. “But we have an important assignment for the WPD, one I'll let Mr. Braxton share with the group. Bob?”