Framed: A Psychological Thriller (Boston's Crimes of Passion Book 2) (9 page)

Cruz accompanied Brophy on the expedition north to Washington Ridge Academy, one of the most exclusive boarding schools in the nation. The school that all the Ashcroft boys had gone, where Noah Ashcroft attended today.

It was here almost forty years ago that a seventeen-year-old boy, Dewayne Marius, had been found dead on the grounds of the academy. His body was discovered underneath a tree beyond the track and baseball field along the Squamscott River.

Pieces of a broken baseball bat were found near the body. An autopsy indicated he had been bludgeoned to death by the bat. He had been struck over ten times in the head. His skull had been so severely scattered that his brain was left exposed.

The murder had never been solved.

There had been whispers and rumors that a group of Washington Ridge’s students lured the victim to his death. Nothing could be proved. No charges were ever filed and the case went cold.

“Who the hell is Adian Graham?” Brophy asked, looking over Cruz’s notes one more time.

“A major prick,” Cruz answered. “The reason I’m sitting in Dr. Keegan’s office with you.”

Brophy laughed to himself. The guy must not have talked with her. He had known there had been a reason for Cruz’s insistence of accompanying him. She couldn’t get in to see Dr. Keegan without a badge. The world of a PI rolled differently than a cop.

Whereas it worked to her advantage, skirting the rules when it came to getting in to see Freddy Ashcroft in the hospital, she had hit a brick wall at Washington Ridge Academy.

The academy had seen too many children of rich and important people walk through their doors not to have safeguards in place for security. They highly valued the privacy of their students and their families.

The badge might have gotten them through the door, but to obtain the information they needed, it was going to take more.

The academy emitted the quaint charm of New England. Sons and daughters of prominent businessmen and politicians filled the seats of the Georgian-style buildings. Students excelled academically and had their view of the world expanded with the broad curriculum.

The door handle rattled. Brophy leaned over to Cruz. “Remember, not a word.”

The words were spoken crisply and left little doubt he meant it. But from the smug look on her face, she hadn’t any intention of remaining silent.

“Detective Brophy.” The tall, distinguished principal was pushing seventy, but he was still fit. He greeted his visitors. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t see your card.”

“Tina Cruz, a consultant for the Boston PD on this case,” Cruz stated without hesitation. “It’s my hope that you will be able to help us by answering some of our questions.”

“I will do my best to satisfy you, Ms. Cruz.” Dr. Samuel Keegan gave her a small smile. “I hope my assistant offered you refreshment.”

“She did,” Brophy answered bluntly. “We’re fine.”

Brophy watched the gray-haired man walk around the elegant, hand carved desk. He pulled out his recorder when the man sat down.

“I hope you don’t mind if I record our interview,” Brophy began, but didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m looking into a cold case, Dewayne Marius, back in ’79. I was told that you were a teacher here at the time. What can you tell me about the murder?”

“I would be foolish to say that I don’t remember that time. It was during my second year teaching history. A tragedy without doubt, but I don’t know what I can tell you. I didn’t know the boy. If I remember correctly, he was a town resident.”

“He might have been a townie, but he died here.” Brophy’s lips twisted downward. He hadn’t driven over an hour to be bullshitted, especially by an intellectual…arrogant wiseacre. “Look, don’t waste our time. I’m not in the mood.”

“I believe what Detective Brophy is trying to say is let us decide if what you remember is important
after
we ask the questions.”

Brophy slid a glance her way in a vain attempt to silence her.
The woman was relentless…
He turned his attention back to Dr. Keegan.

“I’m going to be up-front. If I was the investigating detective on the case, I would have looked first at the students here at Washington Ridge. The kid was found here and killed with one of the baseball team’s bats.

“Looking over the file, there are no notes on interviews with anyone. Do you know what that tells me? That someone—someone with connections—made sure the case went nowhere. Who could have had those kind of connections? Again, I point back to the students here at Washington Ridge.”

“What you say may be true, Detective Brophy, but back then I was only a history teacher.”

Once more, Cruz questioned, “Then why would Adian Graham tell me to talk to you? He said that you know what happened that night…what happened later.”

Dr. Samuel Keegan frowned at Cruz’s question and rubbed his chin in thought. He looked away.

Brophy saw his opportunity and pressed on. “Dr. Keegan, you’re a good man. Dewayne Marius was an innocent young boy. It’s important for us to determine if Walter Ashcroft was involved in his murder. What part did he play?”

“Walter Ashcroft? You believe that Ashcroft murdered that kid?” Dr. Keegan questioned, looking back at Brophy. “Why are you looking at a murder that happened almost forty years ago?”

“We are asking the questions,” Brophy said firmly. “All we need to know is if Walter Ashcroft was involved. Was he?”

Dr. Keegan shook his head. “You have it all wrong.”

“Tell me then. Tell me what I have wrong.”

With a steely, humorless expression, Dr. Keegan leaned forward. “Can this be…as you say,
off the record
?”

“I’m after a murderer, Dr. Keegan. Nothing is off the record.”

“I don’t think you’re after Marius’s murderer.”

“Why would you say that?” Brophy moved his leather high-back chair closer. He needed to look into the man’s eyes.

Dr. Keegan pointed to the recorder. “Turn it off and I will tell you what I know.”

Reluctantly, Brophy hit the stop button. “This better be on the up-and-up.”

“It is,” Dr. Keegan said in a low, deep tone. “Because the one who killed Dewayne Marius is dead. He was arrested and convicted of vehicular manslaughter a year later. He hit a pedestrian crossing the street while drinking. While serving his year in prison, he got into a fight with another inmate and was stabbed to death.”

“How do you know this? What was his name? Why would it be suggested that Walter Ashcroft is connected in some way?”

Brophy fired his questions off in quick succession.

“It’s not what you think,” Dr. Keegan relented. “The killer was a kid named Russell Stanford, who was at Washington Ridge on a full scholarship. A brilliant mind with an IQ of 169, but he had a violent temper.

“Russell was one of Walter Ashcroft’s roommates. Walter had a flamboyant personality, but he struggled with his grades. It is why I knew him so well. I tutored him.”

“Tell me what you know of him. What was he like?”

Dr. Keegan shrugged. “The Walter I knew was a follower. Lazy, I guess. I suspected at times that perhaps Russell wrote Walter’s papers for him. Nothing I could prove. His brothers were also here at Washington Ridge.

“I remember Walter and his brothers were extremely close. They stuck together. Walter was a senior at the time of the incident, Jack, a junior and Donald, a freshman. Though, I always thought it strange that it was Jack who seemed to be the one that the other two looked up to.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Jack was the basketball star. Smart. Handsome. Class president. Looking back, I wonder if perhaps Walter was jealous.” Then, Dr. Keegan shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m getting off the focus of your visit. What is it that you would like to know?”

“Did this Russell Stanford hang out with the brothers?”

Dr. Keegan shook his head. “No,” he said straightaway. “Jack didn’t like Russell and had nothing to do with him. Wouldn’t let Donald have anything to do with him, either.”

“Yet, Walter was close to Russell?”

Nodding his head, Dr. Keegan went on. “Russell was a loner. Most of the students thought him crude, vulgar, and uncouth, but I believe that Walter was closer to Russell than anyone else here. When Russell hung out with anyone, it was Walter and Adian.”

“What happened to cause Russell to attack that kid?”

“A girl. Heather Morgan.” Dr. Keegan sighed. His old, tired eyes welled up. “This is what I heard from Walter after the murder. Russell had a crush on Heather, but she didn’t care for him. To make it worse, she began dating Dewayne Marius. A townie. It infuriated Russell.

“Russell met up with Dewayne when he was walking up to see Heather. Walter said he hadn’t a clue what Russell had planned. He saw Russell swing the bat back. Walter said he and Adian ran when he heard the crack of the head.”

“He left the kid there to die?”

“Walter ran to find Jack, who came to me, and we returned to find the body.” Dr. Keegan swallowed. “Russell was nowhere to be found. Before morning, Witt Ashcroft appeared with his lawyer…before any of the students were interviewed.”

“He hushed everything up because he feared Walter’s connection to Russell?”

Dr. Keegan nodded. “It would seem so.”

“I don’t understand how it got covered up,” Brophy interjected. “If so many people knew what happened.”

Looking away, Dr. Keegan pressed his lips together. “I gave my statement to the officers. No one ever came back to me. The headmaster asked me not to pursue the issue. Russell Stanford was expelled. Marius’s family moved out of town shortly after. Heather Morgan withdrew. As far as I know, the case was closed.”

Brophy sat back in his seat, flabbergasted. He realized that the information did absolutely nothing to help his present case, but fuck! Witt Ashcroft covered up a murder…pure and simple. All to protect the name of Ashcroft.

He saw the disappointment in Cruz’s face. Nothing more to be done.

* * * *

“Okay, thanks.” Cruz scowled, ending the conversation on her phone.

Brophy glanced over at his passenger. Cruz had never been one to hide her feelings. She wasn’t happy. Neither was he.

After listening to a man try to justify covering up a murder, he was annoyed. His visit to the local police station did nothing to alleviate his irritation, especially finding out from the local police that the official report held only the body was found by a teacher, Samuel Keegan.

There was no mention of finding the bat or that he dated a student at Washington Ridge Academy, much less the names of Russell Stanford, Heather Morgan, or the Ashcroft boys.

“Fill me in.”

Taking his eye off the road for a moment, he took the curve too fast and nearly swung into oncoming traffic. He straightened the car as the driver of an old Chevy looked strangely at him.
Certainly different than Boston. In the city, he would have been flipped off.

“Want me to drive?” Cruz asked dryly. “Get me home in one piece. I do have children who depend on me.”

Brophy had almost forgotten Cruz was a mother. She didn’t seem the sort. Tough as nails. No nonsense. Didn’t think she had a maternal bone in her body.

“I’ll get you home before dinner,” Brophy assured her. “Now, what did you learn?”

“Maggie, Kincaid’s assistant, ran down twelve Heather Morgans living in Marblehead community in the last forty years. She found her. Unfortunately, Heather Morgan died eighteen years ago.”

“Sure it’s the right Heather Morgan?”

“Yeah. Her obituary said she was a graduate of Washington Ridge. Thirty-eight. Right age. My guess it was breast cancer since the family asked for donations to a breast cancer foundation. She never married.”

“Damn,” Brophy muttered. Over the last hour, the two had been hunting down leads to confirm Dr. Keegan’s story. It was damn hard after such a long time. “So do you really think that Walter wasn’t there when Russell Stanford beat the kid to death?”

“He was there all right.” Cruz shook out a cigarette and cracked the window. “From what Dr. Keegan said, I sensed that if not for the other brother, Jack, the body might not ever have been found.”

“Jack Ashcroft,” Brophy repeated. “That’s the one who committed suicide.”

“Supposedly,” Cruz said, sarcasm evident in her tone, and let out a stream of smoke. “The high and mighty Ashcrofts. Wonder what other secrets they have buried.”

Brophy didn’t comment. He hated when people believed they were above the law. No one was.

He was going to make damn sure the Ashcrofts knew it.

Her cell phone chimed, more than once. Riley rolled over, trying desperately to ignore the echoing rhythm of the annoying ring. She had just fallen asleep…or she had felt as though it had only been minutes. Her alarm clock said otherwise.

Her hand outstretched for the phone. 
Josh.
 
Again
. If nothing else, he was persistent, but she was well aware how dangerous he was.

She had let her guard down with him once. She couldn’t afford to do so again.

Why then were her dreams filled with the memory of his lips on hers…her body melting into his?

Her phone chirped louder. A text this time. 
See me tonight. J

Her whole body shivered with fear. Not that she was afraid of him, but herself. She didn’t trust herself. Hell, she almost begged him to make love to her. That was something she couldn’t allow…too much of a complication.

She already had too many complications. She texted back. 
I will see you tomorrow for the gala. I still have to find a dress.

Focus! She forced herself to roll toward the nightstand. Sleep had been elusive the last few nights. At least she didn’t have to teach a room full of teenagers this morning. Thankfully, she was on summer break.

Quickly, she reminded herself that she planned it this way. But her plan had been sidetracked with Helen Barlow’s death.

Guilt gnawed at her conscience.
Had she played a part in getting Helen murdered?

Since her grandfather’s death, Riley had relentlessly pleaded with her grandfather’s assistant to file the last will and testament of Witt Ashcroft. Riley had known without a shadow of a doubt the will existed.

Her grandfather had shown it to her.

Riley tried to play on the old woman’s sympathy, but nothing she did softened Helen. The old woman constantly refused, telling Riley more than once she hadn’t a clue what Riley was talking about.

After her grandfather’s death, Walter told Riley she had inherited nothing, all the while she insisted Grandfather had made a new will. They laughed at her. All of them: Walter, Donald, Cora, Vivian, and Ellis.

At the time, she hadn’t cared. Nana was leaving her this house. It would suit her needs. Only, Freddy blurted out and told them all about Nana’s wish before she died. Between Walter and Ellis, the two hammered the final nail in her coffin—making her grandmother change her will.

She had been completely cut out of the Ashcroft fortune. They had won.

So Riley thought, until a couple of weeks ago. Quite out of the blue, Helen had called Riley and told her to expect a package in the mail. It came—the will Riley knew existed—the one that gave her a fair share of the estate, along with her uncles.

Helen never gave Riley an explanation why she had changed her mind. The only thing she told Riley was that she had kept the will in a sealed plastic cover to make it easier to authenticate.

Why hadn’t Helen shown the document at the time of her grandfather’s death? It would have made everything so much simpler.

Everything had become so confusing…she couldn’t stop what had already been placed in motion.

If only she had known…but she was also aware that nothing was guaranteed. Not to mention, she needed money now. It would take years before she saw a cent, if she saw anything.

Her only option was to get the will to the only lawyer she trusted. But Clayton Edmunds lived in Charleston.

She had too much at stake to lose now, but she had never imagined it would come to this. She was scared and slept with her Smith & Wesson pistol in the nightstand, Bailey in her bed, and one eye open.

But she had to buck up. She couldn’t lose courage.

She threw back her covers. She stopped.
Did she hear something?
She heard it again. The back door in the kitchen. First it was light tapping, and then came the shattering of glass, followed by a groan and the creak of the door opening.

She wasn’t alone.

The house alarm beeped. Bailey jumped off the bed and barked madly. Her heart hammered. She reached over and grabbed the gun.

Easing out of bed, she whirled around to the door. Nervously, she glanced around for any sign of an intruder. The shadows of the night had dissipated with the early morning sun, but she saw nothing.

She couldn’t take a chance and dialed 911 with her cell phone. Almost immediately, a blood-curdling cry emerged from the kitchen.

A voice called out from her phone, asking what type of emergency there was, but there wasn’t time to wait for help. She dropped the phone.

She’d be damned if she let someone waltz in and kill her without a fight. With Bailey cowering behind her, Riley held her gun outright and crept from her bedroom, down the stairs, through the foyer to the kitchen. She halted in the doorway.

Surveying the room, she saw the scope of damage: the door broken; the floor littered in broken glass and blood. Fresh red blood.

Her eyes fixed upon the intruder. He stood by the sink, running water over his cut hand. Red liquid poured out of his wound.

Freddy!

“Oh, my God! Freddy, what have you done?”

Straightaway, she lowered her gun and placed it on the counter. Reaching for a dishcloth, she moved to Freddy’s side. Shutting the water off, she wrapped his hand, but the blood seeped through even before she finished.

Taking another cloth, she pushed it over his hand. “Press against it, for heaven’s sake!” She looked into his whitened face and commanded, “Sit down. I will be right back. Don’t move. Do you hear me?”

“Sweet Riley. I came back. I had to see you.”

“Yes…okay, but I have to get you help. You’re hurt.”

He gripped her hand, sliding down to the floor. His eyes glassed over, his lips drawn.

“Don’t go…I have to talk to you…tell you…”

His words slurred together. He fell back against the cabinets. Riley gently withdrew her hand.

“You can. Just let me run upstairs.”

She hesitated; his eyes closed and his head tilted to the side. Her blood turned cold. He was high as a kite.

What the hell was he doing here? How did he get out of the lockdown unit?

Grabbing her gun, she spun and ran back up the stairs. Instinctively, she hid her weapon—the one she didn’t have a permit for—by sliding it under her mattress, and picked up her cell.

A faraway voice called out. “Hello…hello….”

Putting it to her ears, Riley said quickly, “Yes, I’m here. Please send an ambulance. My cousin has been injured.”

“Ma’am, are you okay? Don’t hang up.”

Riley didn’t answer and clicked off, realizing help should already be on its way. She had to get to her cousin.

She paused in the doorway. Her heartbeat pounded so rapidly it felt as though would it burst through her chest. Freddy looked dead.

She took a deep breath and swept down to his side. He had a pulse…he was alive.

Wiping back his sweaty hair, Riley wrapped her arms around him. “Hang on, Freddy. Help is coming.”

“Riley, I didn’t do it…I didn’t go get a fix…they shot me up.” Freddy grasped hold of her arm tightly; his wild eyes opened. “I begged them not to…”

“It’s okay, Freddy. You’re going to be fine.”

“No!” he cried in terror. His fingernails clawed into her skin. “They will find me. I barely escaped this time, Riley. Don’t send me back…” he uttered in a ragged voice. His chest labored with each breath. With effort, he spoke. “I came to tell you…you have to know…run, Riley…run.”

His eyes closed and he groaned under his breath. He was making no sense, but what sense could you make out of a drug-induced paranoia? But something in his voice sent a chill through her.

“Riley…” he whispered.

She couldn’t make out what he said. She leaned closer. “Tell me again, Freddy.”

He opened his eyes wide and met her gaze with obvious panic and fear. “They are coming…Riley…they are coming to kill you.”

No sooner than the words were uttered, his eyes rolled back in his head. Unconscious, he lay his head on her shoulder.

There she sat until the sirens and red lights filled the morning air.

* * * *

Uniforms swarmed the kitchen. Officers with small notepads looked around, talked, and made notes. Flashing lights from the fire engines reflected off the patrol cars, which lined the driveway and street.

Riley sat in the nook with her head in her hands, riddled with frustration. The officers refused to allow her to accompany Freddy.

There were questions to be answered. The officers kept hammering at her.

“Did he intend you harm?”

“No,” she insisted for the fifteenth time. Taking a deep breath, she tried one last time to make them understand. “I told you he was confused. He was worried about me. That’s all. He’s sick. Can’t you understand that? He was supposed to be in the hospital…the lockdown unit. Tell me…tell me how he got out.”

“Good question.”

The voice caused her to look up to find a plainclothes officer in front of her. He took a seat.

She had seen the man before. Staring at the man’s badge clipped to his sports coat pocket, she tried to place him. 
Where?
 Then it came to her—he had been at Helen’s.

“Detective John Brophy—you might remember me.”

“I do,” she acknowledged. “If I remember correctly, you’re a Boston cop. This is Dedham.”

“Funny thing about that. They are the ones who called me. I’m not here about the break-in.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I asked them to keep an eye on you,” he said bluntly. “I believe you know why I’m here.”

Riley shook her head. “I’m not up for games, Detective. What do you want from me?”

“I’ll tell you what: you answer my questions and then I’ll answer yours.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“From the looks of things around here, I think it will be in your best interest.”

For a moment, she considered asking for a lawyer. Ellis had made the police disappear after Helen’s death. Now, though, she hesitated.

Chin up, shoulders back, she said, “I want to go to the hospital. I’m concerned about Freddy.”

“You can go anywhere you want. No one is keeping you here.”

Riley cocked her head to the side. “I was kept from going with him.”

“Until I could get here,” he answered her honestly. “Let’s start off with what happened.”

She considered him for a moment. “I told the officer. I woke to the sound of breaking glass. When I got down here, I found Freddy unconscious on the floor and called 911.”

“Are you sure about that? Because the tape I listened to sounded like you called 911 and then disappeared for seven minutes before coming back on the line and hanging up.”

“Maybe I called before I ran down here,” she said sharply. “I don’t remember. I was a little upset.”

“Because your cousin felt the need to break into your house, high as a kite?”

“Yes…yes.”

“You didn’t have an idea that your cousin was released from the hospital?”

“No.”

“Weren’t you aware he was released last night?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“According to the hospital staff, he was signed out by your uncle, to be transferred to another facility. Mount Pleasant out in Springfield. Frederick Ashcroft never made it.”

“No, I just…” Her words faltered. Her mind raced. 
What the hell had happened to Freddy?

Detective Brophy showed no mercy. He pressed on. “Why would your cousin come here? Why would he break in?”

“I don’t know!” she snapped, suddenly pissed off. “I haven’t seen him for days. Haven’t heard a word about him. Then I wake up to find my cousin bleeding on my kitchen floor. What do you want from me?”

“Answers.” Brophy changed tactics. “The last we met, your lawyer kept you from talking with me. Look, Miss Ashcroft, I’m searching for a killer. Why were you going to see Helen Barlow the day she was murdered? Why was your cousin with you?”

“It seems so long ago now.” She sighed and repeated what Ellis had told her. “Freddy was a recovering addict. He wanted to make amends with Helen. It’s what they do on their road to recovery. I only went for moral support. I know nothing of the murders.”

“I believe you can help me, whether you know it or not.”

“I don’t see how. I don’t know anything…”

His eyes squinted; his lips pressed together. He shook his head slightly. “I think you and I both know that isn’t true.”

“I don’t,” she stated soundly. “Now, if you will excuse me.”

She attempted to stand. He caught her hand.

“You received a certified package from Mrs. Barlow. What was it?’

“How does everyone know about the package? For God’s sake, it was only old pictures from my past she thought I would want!”