Call Me! (28 page)

TUESDAY

ACCORDING TO SOPHIE I screamed and cried for fourteen hours straight. That’s not entirely true, but it’s close. I remember Sophie called Pat Aub to confirm Ben’s death, and he did. He also said he tried to call my cell phone twenty times, and because he couldn’t track me down, police lost hours trying to get permission to enter my residence. Cops can’t claim a door is unlocked when a hundred reporters are documenting their every move. Pat asked Sophie’s name and address, but she refused to give it. He insisted I get on the line, and she told him to kiss her ass. But Pat’s always been good to me, so I took the phone.

He said, “Are you okay, Dani?”

“Of course not. It’s all my fault.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ben’s dead because of me. I should have warned him about the message on my cell phone.”

“He wasn’t murdered, Dani.”

“
ManChild
got him, Pat. He killed Ben, hoping to find me.”

“According to the coroner, it didn’t go down that way.”

“
ManChild
killed him. And it’s my fault.”

“It’s time you told me where you are. We’ll need the address. We also need full details on the woman who’s with you.”

“I’m not ready to be found yet.”

He paused. “You need to rethink that. For now I’m willing to say you refused to divulge the information.”

“Okay.”

“What I really need is your permission to search the premises.”

I was loopy with grief and shock, but said, “You obviously searched the house when you found Ben’s body.”

“You know how this works, Dani. I need your official permission.”

“Then yes, conduct a full search. Tear the place apart. I’ll agree to anything that will help you catch
ManChild
.”

“We’ll videotape the search, and I’ll be there the whole time. Please keep this phone on, okay? I really need to be able to contact you.”

I thanked him and ended the call. Then removed the phone’s battery because if I didn’t, there’d be cops here within an hour.

The conversation with Pat was one of my few lucid moments on this miserable day.

I remember wanting to be alone, in a small place, like when Collin Tyler Hicks locked me in his basement nine years ago. Maybe that’s why I found myself curled up on the shower floor in Sophie’s guest bathroom, getting pelted by hot water. When the water turned cold, I got up and went somewhere else. An hour later I was back in the shower, using up some more of Sophie’s hot water.

I remember Sophie sobbing outside my bedroom door, asking if she could come in. I remember her saying over and over that the media was calling for me to turn myself in to the police because if I didn’t, they were going to put out a warrant for my arrest. They needed to know my whereabouts and any information I might have that could aid their investigation of Ben’s death.

I remember Sophie telling me over and over if I didn’t establish contact, the police were going to think I was involved. So I finally called them, and two officers showed up and waited respectfully for me to compose myself before driving me to the station.

On the way, I’m asked, “Was Ben on any prescription medications you know about?”

“No. He’s in perfect health…
Was
in perfect health,” I amend, and start crying.

“Any illicit drug use you’re aware of?”

“No, of course not.”

“Besides you and Ben, who else has keys to your house?”

It suddenly dawns on me I’m being interviewed by the police.

I’M IN A police car with two chatty police officers.

“Should I get a lawyer?” I ask.

“You’re not a suspect,” one of them says. “Your husband’s body was found by two officers of the Cincinnati police department. He doesn’t appear to have been murdered.”

The police have their own theory, but I’m convinced Ben was murdered by
ManChild
.

The other cop says, “There were no signs of an intruder. All the doors and windows were locked. Countless reporters and police were on the property at all times, and no one was seen entering or exiting the residence, except the few times Ben came out to talk to the press.”

“Then how did he die?”

“What we’re hearing, according to the coroner, is heart attack, or natural causes.”

“That’s crazy. Ben was only thirty-eight.”

They start to say something, but look at each other and decide they’ve already said more than their pay grade warrants.

Earlier, before the police arrived, Sophie called Paul Small. Paul called a defense attorney, Chris Fist, who agreed to represent me during the formal interview. After meeting Chris at the station, we go into an interrogation room and meet a detective named Marco Polo.

“I’m going to have to read that on your ID,” Chris says.

The detective says, “My ID will tell you I’m Marco Polomo. But—”

“All your life you’ve had the nickname.”

He nods. “You should’ve been there the first time I went to a public swimming pool. I was six. Thought everyone there was yelling at me. I kept hollering back, ‘What do you
want
?’”

After setting some ground rules, Polomo brings us up to speed on the current developments. He says the case belongs to Cincinnati, and he’s not privy to all the details. But Cincy’s granting unprecedented cooperation because I’m under the Nashville PD’s protective custody.

I say, “What have they found out about my husband’s death?”

“It’s too early to rule out suicide or foul play,” Polomo says, “since Ben was found in a fetal position clutching his chest. But there was no foaming of the mouth, or vomit, or other outward or obvious signs of poisoning. They’ve done a toxicology report and are waiting on the results. According to his doctor, Ben wasn’t taking prescription drugs, and Cincy PD found none at the premises, nor any evidence of illicit drug use.”

“Ben was healthy as a horse,” I say. “Someone killed him. And I think it’s someone I know.”

I then proceed to tell him everything I know about Roy, except for the part about how Roy and Carter Teague paid me five thousand dollars to take my clothes off at the Brundage Hotel.

“You have the cell phone with you?”

I retrieve the cell and battery, but Chris Fist tells me to put them back in my purse.

Detective Polomo frowns. “We’d really like to hear that prank call,” he says.

“You’d also love full access to her cell phone, wouldn’t you?”

“We can order cell phone records.”

“I’m sure you already have them. But there’s a lot of personal information on the actual phone you don’t need to see unless you’re planning to arrest my client.”

“Will you play just the prank call so we can get it on tape? We’re on the same side here, counselor.”

Chris and I go out to his car and listen to the prank call Roy made. Chris asks me about Sophie, Ben, and Roy, and says, “There’s more to this Roy connection than you’re telling me, and I hope you’re not hiding something that’s going to come back and bite you in the butt.”

“There’s nothing else,” I say.

“If that’s true, I suppose we can play the tape for them.”

We go back inside and they record the prank call.

“I believe this is the man who killed my husband,” I say.

Polomo says, “Well, as I say, they think it’s highly unlikely. I expect your first hunch was correct. This is the man your husband hired to break the news to the press. He threatened you earlier, he’s threatening you now. There are a lot of sicko’s out there, Ms. Ripper, and this guy obviously gets off on threatening women.”

He pauses.

Chris says, “Anything else?”

Polomo says, “The home search your client authorized uncovered some unusual items.”

He suddenly has my full attention.

“What sorts of items?”

“They won’t say. But what
could
they mean by that?”

I say, “My computer might have some odd searches. I’ve subscribed to some sites that are known to be—”

Chris interrupts, saying, “I’m instructing my client not to answer any further questions at this time.”

Polomo frowns and says, “She can speak freely. She’s not a suspect. Ben Davis died of natural causes, not murder. And even if it turns out he
was
murdered, Sophie Alexander has provided your client with an air-tight alibi. Not to mention the whole world knows what she looks like. She couldn’t have been anywhere near the house without being spotted.”

“Detective Polomo,” Chris says. “How many clients have gone to jail after being assured they weren’t suspects?”

Polomo frowns.

Chris says, “You mentioned Ms. Ripper is under police protection. What does that include?”

“We’re willing to put a uniform inside Sophie’s house and two more on her property.”

“It won’t do any good,” I say. “If Roy could get past all those reporters at my house, he can get past three cops at Sophie’s.”

“When it comes to security, there’s a big difference between reporters and cops,” Polomo says, and he’s right. Because the next morning Sophie and I are still alive, despite the fact there are more than two hundred reporters and photographers camped outside her house.

Oh, and Uncle Sal called. Yup. He called Sophie the minute the news broke that I was staying with his niece. He wanted to know the connection. She said she was in love with me!

While all this took place, Sophie pulled me into the farthest corner away from our guards and put Sal on speaker, so I could hear him say, “Aw, shit!”

Sophie said, “What, you don’t approve of my lifestyle?”

Sal said, “Don’t go all—whatcha call—Ellen on me. There’s other stuff going on. Jeez.”

“What other stuff?”

“Look, I wanna help, but your place is swarming with cops.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“This is causing problems.”

“I don’t understand how Dani’s being here affects you in the slightest possible way.”

“Look, I gotta go. You sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ll be in touch,” he says.

Sophie hangs up.

“He sounds like a charmer,” I say.

She sighs. “It’d be so much easier if he worked in a deli.”