Hidden Vices (7 page)

“Are you okay? Do you want me to come over?” Callie asked.

“No, it's nothing, but I'm sure I'll feel it at some point.”

That actually wasn't a lie, as she was already feeling a tightness in her back. It was a reprieve, in her mind's eye, for lying to a friend.

“Okay, no problem.”

Megan gave Callie her cell number and quickly said goodbye. She let Dog out and stood at the door, keeping an eye on Judge Campbell's home. The lights were now off, and they stayed that way until a few nights later, when Megan's curiosity would definitely earn her the nickname Trouble.

Thirteen

It was too early
to go to bed, not that Megan would be able to sleep. She found not one but two emergency medical kits and, thankfully, a heating pad in the Macks' cabinet. She made use of both. She bandaged a cut on her wrist from her human luge sans sled down the driveway, and plugged in the heating pad. She sat petting Dog and found herself speaking aloud to him while staring into the fireplace.

“I can't do this again. I'm here for peace, to figure out my life. Now I'm getting the same feelings I've gotten on every case in the past, but this can't be my case, okay? It technically
wouldn't
be my case, even if my gut is right. I've lost so much in such a short time. Dad. Momma. I think finding Shannon McAllister's killer killed me. I'm numb inside.” She unleashed a self-depreciating laugh. “That's probably why brilliant detective here came to this New Jersey tundra; it's as cold as I've become.” She shook her head. “Fuck, what a cliche. I need a break from death. Let someone else do it.”

When Megan finished her speech to the now sleeping animal, a faint rap sounded at the door. She gingerly got up and opened the blind. It was Billie.

“Can I come in?” she asked. It was obvious she'd been crying.

“Sure, of course.” Megan opened the door to let the teenager in. “Are you okay?”

She didn't answer, but based on her bloodshot eyes and smeared mascara, something was wrong.

Before Megan closed the door, she asked, “Wait, how did you get down the driveway?”

Billie pointed down at her feet. “Traction cleats. They attach to your shoes. I better take them off, though. The Macks have a nice floor and they might scratch.”

I seriously need a pair of those
, Megan thought to herself as her back throbbed. “Come on in.”

Billie climbed up on one of the stools at the kitchen counter.

“Do you want water or tea? I think I have cocoa here, how about that?”

“Cocoa, please.” Billie wiped her nose with her sleeve and looked into the living room. “You still have that crazy dog, huh? You gonna keep him?”

Megan shrugged. “I've called a few places and no one has reported a dog with his description as missing, at least not yet, so he's here for now.”

“Well, if he's here, you should give him a name. Calling him Dog makes you sound … weird.”

Megan laughed. “I've been trying to think of one. No luck.”

“I'm good at these things. Let me take a look at him again.” Billie hopped off the stool and went to examine the surprisingly still dog while Megan poured hot water into a mug for Billie's cocoa.

“Clyde.”

“Clyde?” Megan said, not expecting that answer.

“Clyde,” Billie said with so much certainty. “Now you can stop calling him Dog. He's Clyde.”

Megan nodded with much less certainty. “Maybe.” She handed Billie the cup of cocoa. They sat petting
Clyde
, for a few minutes before Megan spoke. “Something happen tonight? At home?”

“Well, my mom enjoys her scotch and so do the men she has over. Get what I'm saying?”

Megan recognized the look in Billie's eyes. Fifty years of pain and disappointment trapped within a teenager's body. No matter how much eye shadow and mascara she wore, she couldn't hide it. Billie's countenance was similar to the prostitutes Megan collared in the beginning of her career—worn out too early, too young. “Have any of her boyfriends ever hurt you?”

She stared into the fire and whispered, “No.”

Megan wasn't sure she was telling the truth.

“They're too busy beating on my mom, and then she takes them back until the next bottle of scotch arrives. And it always does.”

“Where is your biological father?”

Billie shrugged. “I had an older brother. I think he was about six years older than me. Never knew him well. I assume my father took him when he left. If I knew where my father was, I'd be sending him a Father's Day card saying, ‘Thanks for the sperm, shithead.'”

“Well, it's the thought that counts.” Megan wanted to make her smile. “Stay here for a while.”

“They'll be passed out soon.” Billie looked down into the cup of cocoa. “What, no marshmallows?”

“What do you think this is, a Jersey diner?”

“It was just a question. Don't get your thong in a bunch.” They sat for a few minutes. Then Billie said, “I read about you in the paper.”

Megan nodded. “I'm not surprised.”

“Does your job—well, is that why you didn't want to see what was going on today in Great Cove with whatever happened?” Billie was nervous bringing up the topic, but she was also clearly curious. She began biting her nails.

Megan was cautious with her answer. “Let's just say I've seen a lot.”

Billie whispered, “Me too.”

Megan had little doubt the girl had seen a lot, given her tough exterior and sensitive interior. In many ways Billie reminded Megan of herself. Megan, through no fault of her father's, had grown up seeing crime scene photos when she wasn't supposed to and hearing conversations between her dad and Uncle Mike that were not fit for a young girl's ears. Her father couldn't always shield Megan when her mother began having “difficult moments.” Those days were imbedded in Megan's mind, and she eventually realized they would never go away. So she tucked them behind the strongest brick wall she could build in her memory. Her mother's worst depression and its aftermath was soul crushing. A girl shouldn't see so much life seeping from her mother.

Megan always looked down and shook her head slightly to shake that memory back behind the brick wall. “So, Billie, may I ask you a question?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Why?”

“Because you might not want to know the answer. My aunt always says to never ask a question unless you're ready for the answer, no matter good or bad.”

“She's a smart lady.”

Billie crossed her legs. “Go ahead,” she said with a hint of hesitancy.

Megan could feel Billie building her own brick wall. “Why would your father take your brother and not you? Did your mother fight for you?” Megan was slow with the next question. “Billie, was your dad hurting you? Or maybe your brother hurting you?”

Billie stared into the fireplace, a curious stare, not something Megan was expecting after asking a question like that.

“My brother … I remember him well enough.” She looked directly at Megan. “He would never have hurt me. He protected me from the fighting. My dad? I always got the feeling I wasn't his. Sounds weird, right? It was just always a gut feeling. He couldn't stand when I was around, as if I was some kind of reminder. As for my mother, she loves me, but would a woman who fought for me be doing this now? What do you think?”

Megan could tell she was waiting on an answer. “Both my parents are gone now. We had a good family, but there were hard times; they passed. Hold on until you're on the other side of hard.”

“Hope that rope is strong enough.”

Me too. Me too,
Megan thought.

Billie got up and put her mug in the sink. “They should be passed out by now. I'm going to go back.” Billie put her traction cleats back on.

“The door is always open, Billie.”

“Thanks.”

Saying Billie's name made her ask an odd-timed question. “What is Billie short for?”

“Isabelle. My full name is Isabelle Rebecca Saunders.”

Megan silently recited Billie's full name. “Your initials are IRS?”

“Wow, thank you for that. I wouldn't have figured it out on my own. Thank God you came to town.”

Billie's armor was definitely back in place.

Fourteen

The difficulty Megan had
getting out of bed the next morning was confirmation that smacking into the fence had taken its toll during the night. She walked over to the full-length mirror to inspect the bruises she was sure would be there. Her shoulder had a nice size black and blue splotch on the back left side, as did the left side of her lower back. She shook her head. “Clyde, no walks today. Settle for the fenced-in yard.”

Still in her pajamas, she slipped on boots and went via the garage stairs to get the morning newspaper at the front gate. She unraveled the rubber band and was not the least bit surprised by the front page:
Local Judge Pulled from Lake Hopatcong Feared Murdered.

Megan looked over at the crime scene tape on the lake and over to the judge's house.

This is going to be a cluster fuck, but not mine.

Megan threw the newspaper on the coffee table, fed Clyde, and double-checked the heat again. It was low but not off, which was a relief. She got dressed, and when she put on her father's favorite cardigan sweater, the image of him in it was just steps away in one of the photographs she'd brought with her. In the photo, Pat sat in his green recliner with pipe in hand. A huge smirk washed over his face. Megan was trying to remember when the photo was taken, but the information seemed locked in her memory, and she had no key.

“Ah, Gint.” It was the first time since his death that there wasn't a sinkhole feeling when she thought of him. Perhaps she felt closer to him because she was wearing the same sweater he wore in the photo, or maybe it was his smile. Then reality hit her again: the holidays were nearing, and she would be without both parents for the first time. Last year was so different. Pat and Rose were alive, she was excelling at work, and she was relatively happy. Not the “stop and smell the roses, let's have a group hug” kind of happy, but she was content with how her life was progressing. Megan figured she must have skipped school the day they warned you how life can turn on a dime, and you usually don't get to turn back.

Return to sinkhole mode.

Megan trudged out of the bedroom. She turned on music to listen to in the living room while she read the morning paper. The Macks were obviously classical music lovers, as there wasn't anything else to choose from. Well, that was fine. It's not as if she expected Ozzy Osbourne on their playlist. She stared at the front page of the newspaper. Judge Montague “Monty” Campbell's picture took up three-quarters of the page. The editor, Megan determined, was probably a close personal friend, because the picture was definitely not a recent one. Given his listed age, it was easily fifteen or more years old. Regardless if he was younger or older, Megan didn't like the look of the judge. He certainly wasn't an
un
attractive man. There was just something in the way he smiled that didn't seem genuine, as if mugging for the camera was something he practiced doing in the mirror. As she flipped through the pages, there was little information, which didn't surprise her since his body was discovered less than twenty-four hours ago. The article read more like Campbell's resume once again, focusing on his accomplishments and accolades. This was obviously big news for the area. Hardly any other news was featured.

Megan went to the horoscope section, not because she believed in it, but because she just wanted to read something
else
. She skipped down to her sign, Virgo. There was something about a lunar eclipse in her second house, which she gave little credence to. It went on: “It's best to keep a low profile now as conflict is a possibility.”

And then the doorbell rang.

A man and woman stood on the deck holding their badges. Megan, of course, was unimpressed.

The female officer asked if they could come in to ask her a few questions. Megan opened the door ushering them in. The female clomped into the home, obviously in alpha mode. “I'm Detective Liz Krause, this is Detective Michalski.”

Krause was plain, though not in an ugly sort of way, where a girlfriend might tell a potential fix-up that she had a nice personality. She didn't appear to have that either. She probably did once, but that was a few years ago, Megan assumed. Krause didn't have any one particularly prominent feature that could be deemed her calling card.
Oh, there's Liz, her piercing blue eyes capture your attention.
Nope. She had hazel eyes that were just there to see with. Her demeanor was cold, bordering on rude, and her intention was obviously to push Megan around. Detective Krause would soon learn that would be a mistake on her part.

Megan sized up Krause as they stood in the Macks' kitchen.
This one's all about getting ahead, no matter what
.

Detective Michalski was a different matter. A nice Polish-
looking man in the retirement years of his work, friendly, he wore his winter coat a few sizes too big. He was fat, had a kind smile, a gray combover, a ruddy complexion, and a warm manner about him. Megan knew detectives of his type. Nothing insulted nor upset them because they had their eyes on the prize: a retirement home in Florida and a decent pension. He was probably the only man who could handle being frosty Krause's partner.

As the pair walked in, Clyde decided to make his presence known and ran up to the detectives. Michalski knelt down. “Ah, good boy.” He scratched Clyde's ears. “You are a handsome fella.” Clyde thumped his tail on the wooden floor, whimpering. When Michalski finished, Clyde turned his attention toward Detective Krause.
Amicable
would not be the word for the day. The hair on the back of Clyde's neck rose. He crouched and showed his teeth with a growl Megan had yet to hear from him.

Megan thought animals, especially dogs, knew people better than they knew themselves. They sensed personality and intention, and nine times out of ten, they were right on the money. Had Megan been allowed to show her teeth to Krause, she would have too.

Most people would be nervous when a good-sized dog such as Clyde was showing aggression, but Detective Krause spoke in a detached tone. “Remove him.” She repeated it to Megan.

Megan had zero intention of doing so.
Who the hell does she think she is?
“Clyde, stand down.” Clyde hesitated then walked over to Megan's side, still humming a growl.

Michalski began, attempting to defuse the obvious growing tension in the room. “We have some questions regarding the body we found yesterday in the cove.” He motioned to the newspaper. “Obviously, you've read about it.”

“I haven't even been here a week, so I don't see how I can help you,” Megan answered.

“We're not asking for your
investigative
help. We know you're renting from the Macks.” Krause looked around the room disdainfully. “Temporary leave from the NYPD treats you well.”

On second thought, Clyde, don't stand down
. “Excuse me?” Megan said aloud and raised her eyebrows. “Do you have questions or not?”

Michalski stepped in. “We were wondering if you've seen anyone suspicious in the neighborhood, anything out of the ordinary. I know you haven't been here long, but anything you could think of would be a help.”

Megan thought back to the lights in the judge's house the previous night. “Nope, I can't think of anything.” Megan had to ask; it was her nature, and she couldn't break from it: “How was he murdered? What was the method?”

Michalski was about to answer, but Krause interrupted. “That's confidential information, ma'am, but I do have a question. Why was your Range Rover seen in the driveway of Judge Campbell's estate a few days ago?”

Megan laughed. “Oh,
honey
, you have to do better than that when posturing. Didn't the academy teach you anything?” Megan redirected her attention to Detective Michalski. “The young woman who lives in the gatehouse, Vivian, dropped her phone in front of my garage when she was jogging a few days ago. A neighbor told me where she lives and I returned it.”

“Vivian Campbell, Judge Campbell's daughter.” Krause nodded. “Does she jog by routinely?”

“I wouldn't know.”

“Have you had any other interaction with her?” Krause asked.

Megan shrugged. “I was at a restaurant in Sparta on Lake Mohawk where she works. I saw her there.”

Krause wrote the information down, pulled out her card, and slapped it on the counter. “Call if you think of anything.” She was headed out of the house when she asked, “One more thing. When you saw her at work, did she seem distracted or upset?”

“If I never met her before, how would I know what is distracted or upset for her?” Megan glared. “Bet you aced your behavioral science courses, detective.”

Michalski gave Megan a half-hearted smile. “Thank you for your time, Detective McGinn.”

“I believe it's
Ms
. McGinn, now,” Krause corrected.

Michalski followed Miss Personality out the door with his head down like a child who'd been reprimanded by an angry mother.

The hounding feeling returned the moment Krause and Michalski were gone. Her gut reaction to the activity on the lake, the flashlights flickering in a dead man's house, and now detectives being in contact …

They'd asked far too many questions about Vivian.