Faithless (34 page)

Jeffrey looked at the body without thinking, then found himself unable to look away.

Lena suggested, “He was giving Chip drugs. Maybe he was giving these other people drugs, too?”

“The snake tempted Eve,” Jeffrey said, quoting Connolly.

Footsteps echoed behind him, and he turned to see Sara walking up the stairs.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” she told him, though she had gotten there in record time. “What happened?”

He stepped out onto the landing, telling Lena, “Cover that up,” meaning the poster. He slipped the Baggies into his pocket so he could process them without having to wait for Ed Pelham to take his sweet time. He told Sara, “Thanks for coming.”

“It’s fine,” she told him.

Lena joined him on the landing. He told her, “Go get Two-Bit,” knowing there was nothing else they would find. He had put off bringing in the Catoogah County sheriff long enough.

Sara took his hand as soon as Lena had left.

Jeffrey told her, “He was just sitting there drinking coffee.”

She looked into the room, then back at him. “Did you have any?”

He swallowed, feeling like he had glass in his throat. That was probably how it had started for Cole, a feeling in his throat. He had started coughing, then gagging, then the pain had ripped him nearly in two.

“Jeffrey?”

He could only shake his head.

Sara kept holding his hand. “You’re cold,” she told him.

“I’m a little upset.”

“You saw the whole thing?”

He nodded. “I just stood there, Sara. I just stood there watching him die.”

“There was nothing you could do,” she told him.

“Maybe there was-”

“It killed him too quickly,” she said. When he did not respond, she put her arms around him, holding him. She whispered, “It’s okay,” into his neck.

Jeffrey let his eyes close again, resting his head on her shoulder. Sara smelled like soap and lavender lotion and shampoo and everything clean. He inhaled deeply, needing her scent to wash away the death he had been breathing for the last thirty minutes.

“I have to talk to Terri Stanley,” he said. “The cyanide is the key. Lena didn’t-”

“Let’s go,” she interrupted.

He didn’t move at first. “Do you want to see-”

“I’ve seen enough,” she told him, tugging his hand to get him moving. “There’s nothing I can do right now. He’s a biohazard. Everything in there is.” She added, “You shouldn’t have even been in there. Did Lena touch anything?”

“There was a poster,” he said, then: “He had drugs hidden behind it.”

“He was using?”

“I don’t think so,” he answered. “He was offering them to other people, seeing if they would take it.”

The Catoogah County sheriff’s sedan pulled up, dust swirling in a cloud behind it. Jeffrey couldn’t see how the man had gotten here so quickly. Lena hadn’t even had time to drive to the sheriff’s office.

“What the hell is going on here?” Pelham demanded, jumping out of the car so fast he didn’t even bother to shut the door.

“There’s been a murder,” Jeffrey told him.

“And you just happened to be here?”

“Did you speak to my detective?”

“I passed her on the road and she waved me down. You better be goddamn glad I was already out this way.”

Jeffrey didn’t have the strength to tell him where he could stick his threat. He walked toward Sara’s car, wanting to get as far away from Cole Connolly as he could.

Pelham demanded, “You wanna tell me what the fuck you’re doing in my jurisdiction without clearing it with me first?”

“Leaving,” Jeffrey told him, as if that wasn’t obvious.

“You don’t walk away from me,” Pelham ordered. “Get the hell back here.”

“You gonna arrest me?” Jeffrey asked, opening the car door.

Sara was right behind him. She told Pelham, “Ed, you might want to call in the GBI for this one.”

He puffed his chest out like an otter. “We can handle our own crime scenes, thank you very much.”

“I know you can,” she assured him, employing that sweetly polite tone she used when she was about to cut someone in two. “But as I suspect the man upstairs has been poisoned with cyanide, and as it only takes a concentration of three hundred parts per million of air to kill a human being, I would suggest you call in someone who might be better equipped to handle hazardous crime scenes.”

Pelham adjusted his gunbelt. “You figure it’s dangerous?”

Sara told him, “I don’t think Jim’s going to want to handle this one.” Jim Ellers was the Catoogah coroner. Now in his late sixties, he had owned one of the more successful funeral homes before he retired, but had kept the job as coroner for pocket money. He wasn’t a trained doctor, rather someone who didn’t mind performing autopsies to help pay his greens fees.

“Shit!” Pelham spat at the ground. “Do you know how much this is gonna cost?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he stomped back to his car and pulled out his CB.

Jeffrey climbed into the car and Sara followed.

“What an ass,” she mumbled, starting the car.

He asked, “Give me a lift to the church?

“Sure,” she agreed, backing away from the barn. “Where’s your car?”

“I guess Lena ’s still in it.” He looked at his watch. “She should be here soon.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m going to need a stiff drink,” he told her.

“I’ll have it waiting when you get home.”

He smiled despite the circumstances. “I’m sorry I wasted your time bringing you out here.”

“It’s not a waste of time,” she told him, pulling up in front of a white building.

“This is the church?”

“Yes.”

He got out of the car, looking up at the small, unassuming structure. He told Sara, “I’ll be home later.”

She leaned over and squeezed his hand. “Be careful.”

He watched her pull away, waiting until he couldn’t see her car any longer before walking up the steps to the church. He thought about knocking but changed his mind, opening the door and entering the chapel.

The large room was empty, but Jeffrey could hear voices from the back. There was a door behind the pulpit, and this time he did knock.

Paul Ward answered the door, shock registering on his face. “Can I help you?”

He was blocking the doorway, but Jeffrey could see the family assembled at a long table behind him. Mary, Rachel and Esther were on one side while Paul, Ephraim and Lev were on the other. At the head of the table was an older man in a wheelchair. In front of him was a metal urn that probably contained Abby’s ashes.

Lev stood, telling Jeffrey, “Please come in.”

Paul took his time moving out of Jeffrey’s way, obviously not happy to have him in the room.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Jeffrey began.

Esther asked, “Have you found something?”

Jeffrey told her, “There’s been a new development.” He went to the man in the wheelchair. “I don’t think we’ve met, Mr. Ward.”

The man’s mouth moved awkwardly, and he said something that Jeffrey took for “Thomas.”

“Thomas,” Jeffrey repeated. “I’m sorry to meet under these circumstances.”

Paul asked, “What circumstances?” and Jeffrey looked to the man’s brother.

“I didn’t tell them anything,” Lev said defensively. “I gave you my word.”

“What word?” Paul demanded. “Lev, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?” Thomas made a calming motion with a shaking hand, but Paul told him, “Papa, this is serious. If I’m going to be counsel for the family, they need to listen to me.”

Surprisingly, Rachel barked, “You’re not in charge of us, Paul.”

“Paul,” Lev interceded. “Please sit down. I don’t think I’ve gotten myself into any trouble.”

Jeffrey wasn’t too sure about that, but he said, “Cole Connolly is dead.”

There was a collective gasp around the room, and Jeffrey suddenly felt like he was in some kind of Agatha Christie story.

“My Lord,” Esther said, hand to her heart. “What happened?”

“He was poisoned.”

Esther looked at her husband, then to her oldest brother. “I don’t understand.”

“Poisoned?” Lev asked, sinking down into a chair. “What on earth?”

“I’m pretty sure it was cyanide,” Jeffrey told them. “The same cyanide that killed Abby.”

“But…” Esther began, shaking her head. “You said she suffocated.”

“Cyanide is an asphyxiant,” he told her, as if he hadn’t purposefully hidden the truth from them. “Someone probably put the salts in water and poured it down the pipe-”

“Pipe?” Mary asked. It was the first time she had spoken and Jeffrey saw that her face had turned milk white. “What pipe?”

“The pipe that was attached to the box,” he explained. “The cyanide reacted-”

“Box?” Mary echoed, as if this was the first time she had heard it. Maybe it was, Jeffrey thought. The other day she had run from the room when he’d started to explain what had happened to Abby. Perhaps the menfolk had kept this particular piece of news from her delicate ears.

“Cole told me he’d done this before,” Jeffrey said, looking at each of the sisters in turn. “Did he punish the other kids this way when they were growing up?” He looked at Esther. “Did he ever punish Rebecca this way?”

Esther seemed to be having trouble breathing. “Why on earth would he-”

Paul cut her off. “Chief Tolliver, I think we need to be alone right now.”

“I’ve got some more questions,” Jeffrey said.

Paul replied, “I’m sure you do, but we’re-”

“Actually,” Jeffrey interrupted, “one of them is for you.”

Paul blinked. “Me?”

“Did Abby come see you a few days before she went missing?”

“Well…” He thought about it. “Yes, I think so.”

Rachel said, “She took those papers to you, Paul. The ones for the tractor.”

“Right,” Paul remembered. “I left them here in my briefcase.” He explained, “There were some legal documents that had to be signed and sent off by close of business.”

“She couldn’t fax them?”

“They had to be the originals,” he explained. “It was a quick trip, down and back up. Abby did that a lot.”

“Not a lot,” Esther contradicted. “Maybe once or twice a month.”

“Semantics,” Lev said. “She would run down papers for Paul so he didn’t have to take four hours out of his day on the road.”

“She took the bus,” Jeffrey said. “Why didn’t she drive herself?”

“Abby didn’t like driving on the interstate,” Lev answered. “Is there a problem? Do you think she met someone on the bus?”

Jeffrey asked Paul, “Were you in Savannah the week she disappeared?”

“Yes,” the lawyer replied. “I told you that before. I spend every other week there. It’s just me handling all the legal business for the farm. It’s very time-consuming.” He took a small notebook out of his pocket and scribbled something down. “This is my Savannah office number,” he said, tearing off the sheet of paper. “You can call my secretary there- Barbara. She can verify where I was.”

“What about at night?”

“Are you asking me for an alibi?” he demanded, incredulous.

Lev said, “Paul-”

“Listen here,” Paul said, getting into Jeffrey’s face. “You’ve interrupted my niece’s funeral. I understand you have to do your job, but this is not the time.”

Jeffrey stood his ground. “Take your finger out of my face.”

“I’ve had just about enough-”

“Take your finger out of my face,” Jeffrey repeated, and, after a moment, the man had the good sense to drop his hand. Jeffrey looked at the sisters, then at Thomas, sitting at the end of the table. “Someone murdered Abby,” he told them, feeling a barely controlled sense of rage burning deep inside of him. “She was buried in that box by Cole Connolly. She stayed in there for several days and nights until someone-someone who knew she was buried out there- came along and poured cyanide into her throat.”

Esther put her hand to her mouth, tears springing into her eyes.

“I’ve just watched a man die that death,” he told them. “I watched him writhe on the floor, gasping for air, knowing full well that he was going to die, probably begging God to go ahead and take him just to release him from the pain.”

Esther dropped her head, crying in earnest. The rest of the family seemed shocked, and as Jeffrey glanced around the room, no one but Lev would look him in the eye. The preacher seemed about to speak, but Paul put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, stopping him.

“Rebecca’s still missing,” Jeffrey reminded them.

“Do you think…” Esther began. Her question trailed off as the implications hit her full force.

Jeffrey watched Lev, trying to read his blank stare. Paul’s jaw had tightened, but Jeffrey didn’t know if this was from anger or concern.

It was Rachel who finally asked the question, her voice quavering at the thought of her niece in danger. “Do you think Rebecca’s been taken?”

“I think somebody in this room knows exactly what’s been going on- is probably a part of it.” Jeffrey tossed a handful of business cards down on the table. “These have all my numbers,” he told them. “Call me when you’re ready to find out the truth.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sara lay in bed on her side, looking out the window. She could hear Jeffrey in the kitchen, knocking pans around. Around five this morning, he had scared the shit out of her, jumping around in the dark as he put on his running shorts, looking like an ax murderer in t he shadows cast by the moon. An hour later, he had wakened her again, cursing like a sailor when he accidentally stepped on Bob. Displaced from the bed by Jeffrey, the greyhound had taken to sleeping in the bathtub and was just as indignant as Jeffrey to find them both simultaneously in the tub.

Still, she was somewhat comforted by Jeffrey’s presence in the house. She liked rolling over in the middle of the night and feeling the warmth of his body. She liked the sound of his voice and the smell of the oatmeal lotion he used on his hands when he thought she wasn’t looking. She especially liked that he cooked breakfast for her.

“Get your ass out of bed and come scramble the eggs,” Jeffrey yelled from the kitchen.

Sara muttered something she would be ashamed for her mother to hear as she dragged herself out from under the covers. The house was freezing cold even though the sun was beating down on the lake, waves sending coppery glints of light through the back windows. She grabbed Jeffrey’s robe and wrapped it around herself before padding down the hallway.

Jeffrey stood at the stove, frying bacon. He was wearing sweatpants and a black T-shirt, which set off his bruised eye nicely in the morning sun.

He said, “I figured you were awake.”

“Third time’s a charm,” she told him, petting Billy as he leaned up against her. Bob was splayed on the couch with his feet in the air. She could see Bubba, her erstwhile cat, stalking something in the backyard.

Jeffrey had already gotten out the eggs and set the carton beside a bowl for her. Sara cracked them open, trying not to drip the whites all over the counter. Jeffrey saw the mess she was making and took over, saying, “Sit down.”

Sara sank into the stool at the kitchen island, watching him clean up her mess.

She asked the obvious. “You couldn’t sleep?”

“No,” he told her, tossing the rag into the sink.

He was worried about the case, but she also knew that he was almost as troubled about Lena. Their entire relationship, Jeffrey had been in some state of concern for Lena Adams. In the beginning it was because she was too hotheaded on the street, too aggressive with her arrests. From there, Jeffrey had been worried about her competitiveness, her yearning to be the best on the squad no matter what shortcuts she felt she had to take. He had trained her carefully as a detective, partnering her with Frank but taking her under his wing, grooming her for something-something Sara thought the other woman would never get. Lena was too single-minded to lead, too selfish to follow. Twelve years ago, Sara could have predicted he would still be worrying over Lena today. That she was mixed up with that Nazi skinhead Ethan Green was really the only thing that had ever surprised her about the other woman.

Sara asked, “Are you going to try to talk to Lena?”

Jeffrey didn’t answer her question. “She’s too smart for this.”

“I don’t think abuse has anything to do with intelligence or lack thereof,” Sara said.

“That’s the reason I don’t think Cole went after Rebecca,” Jeffrey told her. “She’s too willful. He wouldn’t pick someone who would fight back too much.”

“Is Brad still looking over in Catoogah?”

“Yeah,” he said, not sounding hopeful that the search would yield anything. He skipped on to Cole Connolly as if he had been having a different conversation in his head. “Rebecca would’ve told her mother what was going on and Esther… Esther would have ripped out Cole’s throat.” Using his good hand, he broke the eggs one by one into the bowl. “Cole wouldn’t have risked it.”

“Predators have an innate ability to choose their victims,” Sara agreed, thinking again about Lena. Somehow, the circumstances of her damaged life had taken over, making her an easy target for someone like Ethan. Sara completely understood how this happened. It was all logical; yet, knowing Lena, she was still having trouble accepting it.

“I kept seeing him last night, the panic in his eyes when he realized what was happening. Jesus, what a horrible way to die.”

“It’s the same thing that happened to Abby,” she reminded him. “Only she was alone in the dark and had no idea what was happening to her.”

“I think he knew,” Jeffrey said. “At least, I think he figured it out in the end.” There were two mugs in front of the coffeemaker and he filled them, handing Sara one. She saw him hesitate before taking a sip, and wondered if there would ever be a time when he could drink coffee without thinking about Cole Connolly. In the scheme of things, Sara had a much easier job than Jeffrey did. He was out there on the front line. He saw the bodies first, told the parents and loved ones, felt the weight of their desperation to find out who had taken away their child or mother or lover. It was no wonder that cops had one of the highest suicide rates of any profession.

She asked, “What’s your gut feeling?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, mixing the eggs with a fork. “Lev admitted that he was attracted to Abby.”

“But that’s normal,” she said, then backed up. “Well, normal if it happened the way he said it did.”

“Paul says he was in Savannah. I’m going to check that out, but that still doesn’t account for his evenings.”

“That could just as easily point to his innocence,” Sara reminded him. She had learned from Jeffrey a long time ago that someone who had a pat alibi was generally a person to look at closely. Sara herself couldn’t come up with a witness who could swear Sara had been at home alone all night when Abigail Bennett had been murdered.

“No news on the letter you were sent yet,” he said. “I doubt the lab will find anything anyway.” He frowned. “It’s costing a fucking fortune.”

“Why do it?”

“Because I don’t like the idea of somebody contacting you about a case,” he told her, and she could hear resentment in his tone. “You’re not a cop. You’re not involved in this.”

“They could have sent it to me knowing that I would tell you.”

“Why not just send it to the station?”

“My address is in the phone book,” she said. “Whoever sent it might have worried that a letter would get lost at the station.” She asked, “Do you think it was one of the sisters?”

“They don’t even know you.”

“You told them I was your wife.”

“I still don’t like it,” he said, dividing the eggs between two plates and adding a couple of slices of toast to each. He veered back to the original subject. “The cyanide is what’s hard to connect.” He offered her the plate of bacon and she took two pieces. “The more we look into it, the more it seems like Dale is the only possible source.” Jeffrey added, “But Dale swears he keeps the garage locked at all times.”

“Do you believe him?”

“He may beat his wife,” Jeffrey began, “but I think he was telling me the truth. Those tools are his bread and butter. He’s not going to leave that door open, especially with people coming through from the farm.” He took out the jelly and passed it to her.

“Is it possible he’s involved?”

“I don’t see how,” Jeffrey told her. “He’s got no connection to Abby, no reason to poison her or Cole.” He suggested, “I should just run the whole family in, split them up and see who breaks first.”

“I doubt Paul would allow that.”

“Maybe I’ll tag the old man.”

“Oh, Jeffrey,” she said, feeling protective of Thomas Ward for some unknown reason. “Don’t. He’s just a helpless old man.”

“Nobody’s helpless in that family.” He paused. “Not even Rebecca.”

Sara weighed his words. “You think she’s involved?”

“I think she’s hiding. I think she knows something.” He sat beside her at the counter, picking at his eyebrow, obviously mulling over the niggling details that had kept him up all night.

Sara rubbed his back. “Something will break. You just need to start back at square one.”

“You’re right.” He looked up at her. “It keeps going back to the cyanide. That’s the key. I want to talk to Terri Stanley. I need to get her away from Dale and see what she says.”

“She’s got an appointment at the clinic today,” Sara told him. “I had to fit her in during lunch.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Her youngest hasn’t gotten any better.”

“Are you going to talk to her about the bruises?”

“I’m in the same boat as you,” she said. “It’s not like I can back her into a corner and get her to tell me what’s going on. If it were that easy, you’d be out of a job.”

Sara had experienced her own guilt last night, wondering how she had seen Terri Stanley all these years and never guessed what was happening at home.

She continued, “I can’t really betray Lena ’s confidence and for all I know, it’ll scare her off. Her kids are sick. She needs the clinic. It’s a safe place for her.” Sara assured him, “If I ever see so much as a hair disturbed on those kids, you’d better believe I’ll say something about it. She’d never leave the building with them.”

He asked, “Does she ever bring Dale with her when she comes to the clinic?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Mind if I stop in to talk to her?”

“I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that,” she said, not liking the idea of her clinic being used as a second police station.

He told her, “Dale has a loaded gun in his shop, and something tells me he doesn’t like cops talking to his wife.”

“Oh,” was all she could say. That changed things.

“Why don’t I just wait around in the parking lot for her to come out?” he suggested. “Then I’ll take her to the station.”

Sara knew this would be a lot safer, but she still didn’t relish the thought of being involved in setting up Terri Stanley for a surprise attack. “She’ll have her son with her.”

“Marla loves children.”

“I don’t feel good about this.”

“I’m sure Abby Bennett didn’t feel good about being put in that box, either.”

He had a point, but she still didn’t like it. Despite her better judgment, Sara relented. “She’s scheduled to come in at twelve fifteen.”

***

Brock’s funeral home was housed in a Victorian mansion that had been built in the early 1900s by the man who had run the railroad maintenance depot over in Avondale. Unfortunately, he had dipped into the railroad’s coffers in order to finance the construction and when he had been caught, the place had been sold at auction. John Brock had purchased the mansion for a ridiculously low sum and turned it into one of the nicest funeral homes this side of Atlanta.

When John died, he passed the business on to his only son. Sara had gone to school with Dan Brock and the funeral home had been on her bus route. The family lived above the business, and every weekday morning, she had cringed as the bus pulled up in front of the Brocks’ house-not because she was squeamish, but because Brock’s mother insisted on waiting outside with her son, rain or shine, so that she could kiss him good-bye. After this embarrassing farewell, Dan would clamber onto the bus, where all the boys would make smooching noises at him.

More often than not, he ended up sitting beside Sara. She hadn’t been part of the popular crowd or the drug crowd or even the geeks. Most times, she had her head in a book and didn’t notice who was sitting beside her unless Brock plopped himself down. He was chatty even then, and more than a bit strange. Sara had always felt sorry for him, and that hadn’t changed in the thirty-plus years since they had ridden to school together. A confirmed bachelor who sang in the church choir, Brock still lived with his mother.

“Hello?” Sara called, opening the door onto the grand hall that went the full length of the house. Audra Brock hadn’t changed much in the way of decorating since her husband had bought the mansion, and the heavy carpeting and drapes still fit the Victorian period. Chairs were scattered down the hall, tables with Kleenex boxes discreetly hidden beside flower arrangements offering respite for mourners.

“Brock?” she asked, setting down her briefcase on one of the chairs so that she could dig out Abigail Bennett’s death certificate. She had promised Paul Ward she would have the paperwork to Brock yesterday, but she’d been too busy to get to it. Carlos had taken a rare day off, and Sara didn’t want to keep the family waiting one more day.

“Brock?” she tried again, looking at her watch, wondering where he was. She was going to be late getting to the clinic.

“Hello?” There hadn’t been any cars parked outside, so Sara assumed there wasn’t a funeral taking place. She walked down the hallway, peering into each of the viewing parlors. She found Brock in the farthest one. He was a tall, gangly man, but he had managed to lean the entire upper part of his body into a casket, the lid resting on his back. A woman’s leg, bent at the knee stuck up beside him, a dainty, high-heel clad foot dangling outside the casket. Sara would have suspected something obscene if she didn’t know him better.

“Brock?”

He jumped, smacking his head against the lid. “Lord a’mighty,” he laughed, clutching his heart as the lid slammed down. “You near about scared me to death.”

“Sorry.”

“Guess I’m in the right place for it!” he joked, slapping his thigh.

Sara made herself laugh. Brock’s sense of humor matched his social skills.

He ran his hand along the shiny edge of the bright yellow casket. “Special order. Nice, huh?”

“Uh, yeah,” she agreed, not knowing what else to say.

“Georgia Tech fan,” he told her, indicating the black pinstriping along the lid. “Say,” he said, beaming a smile, “I hate to ask, but can you give me a hand with her?”

“What’s wrong?”

He opened the lid again, showing her the body of a cherubic woman who was probably around eighty. Her gray hair was styled into a bun, her cheeks slightly rouged to give her a healthy glow. She looked like she belonged in Madame Tussauds instead of a lemon-yellow casket. One of the problems Sara had with embalming was the artifice involved; the blush and mascara, the chemicals that pickled the body to keep it from rotting. She did not relish the thought of dying and having someone- worse yet, Dan Brock- shoving cotton into her various orifices so that she wouldn’t leak embalming fluid.