Hidden Vices (8 page)

Fifteen

The number of vans
parked in the driveway and the number of people entering the Judge's house was difficult to determine. They carried equipment, boxes, and cameras. They wore jackets that had
CSI
written on the back. I knew it would only be a matter of time before they came to the door. I wondered if they'd find what my mother had found before the Judge tried to give me away. People think I don't know he did that, but my mother told me everything. She wanted me to know why the Judge hated me. I remember the day she told me.

The day my mother, Victoria, gave birth she knew something was wrong, but medical technology wasn't as advanced as it was today. It took almost a year before anyone else realized something was wrong. Discovered because of a random plate crashing down to the kitchen floor behind me while I sat banging on pots and pans with a wooden spoon. There was no reaction, no crocodile tears, no screaming, not even a glance. Silence. One week later my mother walked into the nursery and I was gone. She didn't panic because she knew
he
had been a part of it. She walked calmly into the great room, where he sat smoking a cigar, drinking his liquor.

“Monty, what have you done?”

He blew the smoke in her face. “What needed to be done.”

My mother had asked again, with a fierceness he was unaccustomed to hearing from her voice. “Monty, what have you done? Where is she?”

He ignored her, but she would have none of it. She turned to leave the room. “She is back in this house by the end of the day otherwise I will make sure everyone knows what I found in your desk.” She quickly faced him. “Yes, I know. Get her back now.”

“You're not allowed in my office.” The Judge glared then, and she described how his right cheek shook, as it always did when he was about to explode. “You are not allowed in there!”

“Get. Her. Back. Now!”

He took an extra long puff from his cigar, figuring, plotting. “Fine, but you're not living in the main house. You and that thing will stay in the east wing. You will maintain your responsibilities as my wife.”

“And you will maintain your financial responsibilities toward me and our daughter, or else.”

My mother told me she got me back that same night. It was our first night in the east wing, and now I call the gatehouse my home. And I call the Judge dead, as he should be.

Megan's cell rang as she emerged from the long hot shower. It was Callie.

“Hey Trouble, how are you feeling this morning?”

“Sore, actually. What's up?”

“I received a text from Vivian. She had a cancellation for a massage today if you want to get in, but after hearing about your steep driveway, I think it would be easier for you to go to her place. Sound good?”

She rubbed her shoulder then twisted from side to side. The motion brought a tight pang running up her back. “I'm going to take you up on that.”

“I'll send her a text. Be at her place in forty-five minutes. And, if you like, come over to the restaurant afterward and we can have a bite to eat and continue our conversation.”

“Sounds good, I have something to talk to you about.” Megan heard a smashing sound in the background.

“Hold on to that thought until I see you. A new waitress just dropped a tray.”

Callie hung up without a goodbye.

Megan continued her morning routine and gingerly placed herself in Arnold to drive over to Vivian's. When she arrived a plethora of police and crime scene investigators were running amok on and around the judge's home.

“Shit.” Megan looked over at the gatehouse, knowing it wouldn't be long before they hit that too. She walked up and pressed the doorbell. The lights inside flickered and Vivian soon opened the door. Megan smiled, a tad unsure as to how to communicate. Megan knew immediately Callie had been in contact from the note Vivian handed her. It stated Callie told her about the fall she took. She was going in the other room to set up her massage table. Megan nodded, answering, “Okay.”

While Megan waited she walked around the gatehouse. She felt a bit intrusive, but her curiosity still got the best of her. The stark outdoor setting was a contradiction to the warm interior. The
hacienda-style decor was a warm welcome, with rich colors of orange, red, and yellow on the walls. There was iron lighting and countless candles in the room. A stone fireplace located in the corner had a large plant placed on the hearth. Megan looked over at the coffee table. Pictures of Vivian and a woman she was sure was her mother were placed in a manner Megan wanted to refer to as purposeful—from oldest to most recent—across the top. She could hear Vivian in the next room setting up her massage table when the doorbell rang, again setting off the lights in the gatehouse. Megan looked over at the side pane of glass and could see her least favorite detective standing outside. The look on her face was that of an abused pit bull. She was preparing to lunge.

“That woman's photo should be placed next to the term ‘displaced anger' in the
American Journal of Psychology
,” Megan whispered to herself.

Vivian came out from the room looking surprised that someone else was at her door. She opened it only enough to show her face. Megan heard Detective Krause introduce herself and her partner in the most insulting way possible to a deaf person: slowly, while using hand gestures and speaking loudly, as if Vivian would suddenly be graced with the power to hear.

Stupid bitch.

The detectives started to walk into the gatehouse, and Vivian shot a look at Megan.

“What's going on here?” Megan asked, not masking her anger now mixed with disgust.

“Well, it didn't take long for you to get over here,” Detective Krause snapped. “She your next charity case?”

“You will be in a few minutes,” Megan added. “You're trespassing.”

Krause pulled out a warrant. “No, we're searching the place.”

Vivian looked alarmed now, which made Megan even more determined. “Where is the interpreter? I don't see anyone. You know she's deaf.”

“She's deaf, not blind; it's all here in the paperwork.”

“I'm sure it is—one of the judge's cohorts signed off on an illegal search. She has a right to an interpreter. You will not go through this home without a detailed explanation to the owner, which is now Vivian seeing as the judge is on a slab somewhere.”

“
Ms.
McGinn, apparently I need to remind you once again that you do not have jurisdiction here, or anywhere for that matter,” Krause said.

“But I do have a cell phone, and with my current pseudo-
celebrity status I can get a film crew over here in one minute while you walk all over Vivian's personal freedom and right to an interpreter. And then I'll find the best lawyer to sue your department, the judge who signed that warrant, and you personally on her behalf. And guess what,
she-man
: she will win.”

Detective Michalski whispered to his partner, “Krause, let's go.”

“We're coming back, with an interpreter.” Krause stared Vivian down before slamming the door.

Vivian went up to the door and opened it, prompting Krause to turn around. Vivian flashed Krause her middle finger.

Megan looked out the gatehouse door. “Do you need an interpreter for that sign?”

Sixteen

Megan immediately called Callie
and briefly explained the situation. She asked for him to come over to Vivian's right away. Megan wrote a note telling Vivian what she and the detectives spoke about and that Callie was on his way. Vivian pointed at Megan's chest and then down at the floor. She wanted Megan to stay. Megan shook her head no and continued writing on the notepad while saying it aloud: “I can't stay and shouldn't be here when they return. Callie will be here with you.”

She then pointed to herself and the outdoors.

“No, you can't leave. They'll be back soon. You need to stay,” Megan said and wrote. “I will stay until he gets here.”

It wasn't long before Callie arrived. He flew through the door, slightly out of breath. “Megan, what's going on?” He signed with Vivian asking if she was okay. He continued to sign while speaking to Megan. “Why do they want to search the gatehouse? That bastard stayed as far away from Vivian as he could. What are they looking for?”

“I have no idea. It's probably procedural, given that the gatehouse is so close to the main house, but—I don't know. The same detectives stopped over at my place earlier this morning.”

“What?” Callie was confused. “Why were they talking to you?”

“They were just asking generic questions about seeing anyone in the neighborhood, things like that. And just so you're aware, the female lead on the case is an absolute piece of work. My advice is to stay out of their way and don't get into any communication without the interpreter.”

“Wait, where are you going? You're leaving?”

“Callie, I can't and shouldn't be here.” Megan felt ashamed for retreating, but she also knew it was in everyone's best interest. “Listen, I didn't get on well with Krause, the lead working this. Trust me on this one. You want me as far away as possible.”

Callie stared at Vivian and back at Megan. He was clearly not happy with Megan's choice. “Okay then.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder. “If I didn't think my presence would have a negative impact, I would stay. You know that.”

His reaction softened some. “I know, kind of.”

“Call me or come over later.” Megan turned to Vivian and mouthed, “You'll be okay.”

Megan returned to the Macks' house immediately and realized the adrenaline jolt she'd had during her verbal warfare with Krause had temporarily lifted the physical pain she was feeling. She knew it would soon return and so popped a few aspirin. When she noticed the morning paper she'd tossed on the counter earlier, she promptly folded it and threw it in the bin. “Enough, no more.”

For the next hour she sat, drank a glass of wine that quickly turned into a half bottle with lunch, fed Clyde, then stared outside as light flurries began to cover the deck. It's not as if she could
cauterize her detective instinct out of her mind, but she was pretty certain she could numb most of it.

So little changes in my life
, she thought.

Her cell rang. It was Nappa. Megan kicked it to voicemail, not wanting conversation with anyone but Clyde. It was a sure bet he wouldn't speak back, and that was more than fine with her.

The snow was falling with more consistency by late afternoon. Megan looked out the window to see the bubbler system was on in the boathouse, but the red and green lights signaling to snowmobile riders that there was open water were not on. “Lovely.” She grabbed her coat. “Clyde, want to go outside?”

He turned and promptly settled into his nook in front of the fireplace. Clyde was no fool.

“Wimp. I'll be right back.”

Megan carefully made her way down to the lake and entered the boathouse, avoiding patches of ice as if they were mines as she made her way over to the power box. The wires leading to the outdoor lights had been cut.

“What the hell?” She walked to the front of the dock and looked around but saw nothing except two stomped-out cigarette butts. She knelt down for a closer look. Nothing distinctive about them, just plain old cigarettes. When she stood up, a burlap bag came over her head. The sack immediately tightened around her neck. She pawed at the hands behind her, failing to loosen their grip. She could feel her breath becoming more and more shallow.

Air, need more air,
was all she could think, but she couldn't get herself to stop hyperventilating.

Her attacker was strong, strong enough to lift Megan off her feet. He swung her back and forth. Then she felt the hands release her, and her body hit icy water a second later. She tore at the sack, ripping it off her head. The temperature shocked her, and she was unable to tell which direction was up. She gasped, taking in only frigid water. Her boots began to feel like anchors pulling her deeper into the water.

Megan forced her eyes open. The rising bubbles indicated the direction she needed to get to, and fast. Desperation mixed with adrenaline forced her to kick and flail toward the surface. Air exploded into her lungs as she hurled herself through the surface. She stroked clumsily to the dock and grabbed at it, unable to gain a firm hold. She attempted time after time to pull herself up. It was a fruitless effort. The ice on the dock was too slippery, her hands too numb. She continually fell back into the frigid lake.

A figure slowly walked into the boathouse. Too slowly. When the person reached her, he grabbed her jacket with only one fist, easily pulling her up and over to a dry section of the dock.

“You can't be so clumsy, city girl.”

Megan rolled over to see the marina owner, Jake Norden. She was shivering violently and thought hypothermia would soon begin, but she was too angry to allow it.

“What the fuck!”

“What is it with you that
that
is always the first sentence out of your mouth when you see me?”

“Could you have fucking walked any slower to help me!” The words set off a barrage of coughs.

“Thought you were a fish.” He grinned.

“That's not funny; I could have died!” Megan tried to stand but found it difficult.

“Here, let me help.” Jake grabbed her from behind and lifted her by her waist. “You shouldn't be out here if you don't know how to swim, you know.”

She snapped out of his grip. “I know how to swim, you motherfucker!” Megan began to punch at him. The idea that someone had just tried to ice her—literally—fueled her Irish temper. “You fucking asshole!”

Jake held her back. “What? What happened? I just came to check on the bubbler system.”

Even with how unnerved Megan was at the moment, she could tell by the sheer shocked look on his face that Jake was not the person who tossed her in. “Did you see anyone?”

“What?”

“Did you see anyone?” Megan stumbled over to the doors and flung them open. “Someone threw me in.”

“What are you talking about? I just walked in and you were in the water. There's no one here. It's icy, you gotta watch it.” He stared at her as if she was crazy, and for a moment Megan thought she was too—until she saw the burlap sack floating in the water.

“The lights.” Megan pointed to the front of the boathouse with a shaking arm. “They weren't on. I came down to check on the lights. The wires were cut.”

“What?” Jake went to the power box to inspect the wires and found them neatly cut, as had Megan. He looked around at the adjoining properties; there was not a soul to be found. “Were the lights working last night?”

In between hard coughs, she said, “Yes. Someone pulled that sack over my head, and then I was in the water.”

Jake used a rod to fish the sack out and flopped it on the dock. “I'm in this boathouse all the time, and I've never seen this in here.” Jake stood up and looked at Megan. “Jeez, you've got rope burns on your neck. You need to see a doctor. We should call the police.”

Megan stared out over Lake Hopatcong, desolate and freezing. “I am the police,” she answered.

“God, I wasn't even planning on stopping in. I happened to be checking on another boathouse, so that's why I'm here. You better get out of those clothes. You could catch pneumonia. Are you okay?” Jake looked chagrined for his dismissive attitude earlier.

“Yes, I'm fine!”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “I think now is the time you say thank you.”

Megan opened the gate to the yard. “Thank you!” She slipped and slid the entire walk up to the house, entering through the lower level. She pulled off her soaked attire in the laundry room. It took longer than usual since she couldn't stop shaking. She put on sweats and a warm sweater, not that she thought she'd ever feel warm again. She was about to sit when a knock sounded at the back door.

This douche bag doesn't take a hint.
She swung open the door. “What—do—you—want?”

“I just wanted to tell you I need to go back and get wires. I'll have it fixed in an hour or so.” The gate to the deck creaked. Jake turned to see who had arrived. “Hey, Callie. How are ya, man?” The two men greeted one another with a handshake.

“Hey, what's up?” Callie looked to Megan. “Woah, what happened to you?”

Megan was gob-smacked. “Wait, you
know
this guy?”

Jake asked, “You know
her
?”

“Jake and I have known one another since we were kids. Trouble—uh,
Megan
—and I know one another from college. What happened?”

Jake looked at Megan. “Tell him what you told me.”

Megan was angry Jake brought it up. Embarrassment had set in as soon as she'd gotten in the warm house. “Someone came up behind me and threw me in the water.”

“You're kind of forgetting a few big points in this story.” Jake looked at Callie. “I need to go get some wires and fix the lights on the boathouse. I'll be back in a bit. I'll stop by for a beer soon, we'll get caught up.”

Callie answered, “Sounds good,” but didn't take his eyes off Megan and the redness around her neck.

Megan motioned for Callie to come in. “I need to get in front of the fire.”

“Tell me what happened.”

She shook her head. “The lights weren't on down at the boathouse. I went down thinking the switch didn't turn over, and when I opened the electric box, I saw the wires had been cut.”

“How do you know they were cut?”

Megan was in no mood to be treated like a weak damsel in distress. “Because I have fucking eyes in my head and could clearly see they had been cut.”

Callie was quickly put in his place. “Okay, okay. So, then what?”

“I bent over to look at two cigarette butts and then someone pulled a sack over my head and …” Megan hesitated. This hadn't been the first time she'd been attacked; she found herself fighting the past as much as she was trying to handle the present. “He tried to choke me with it. Before I knew it, I was in the water.”

“Jake pulled you out?”

Megan nodded.

“Jake didn't do this, if that's what you're thinking. I know he's a little rough around the edges, but all in all, he is a good guy.”

Megan lifted her hands into air quotes. “I'm not sure about ‘good guy', but I know he didn't do it.” She plodded through to the kitchen and poured herself some more wine. The frigid swim had sobered her up faster than she'd planned on. She and Callie sat in front of the fireplace. Clyde moved in between them, close to Megan, as though trying to warm her. “Next subject, please.”

“We should call the police.”

“No, we should talk about something else now.” Megan gave no room for any further discussion on the subject.

After a releasing a frustrated sigh, Callie said, “When did you get a dog?”

“I found him.” With little patience remaining, she got to the point: “So, what happened?”

“Oh, they came back. You were right, Krause is one angry bitch.”

“Uh-huh.” She hesitated to ask more questions but went ahead anyway. “Did they tear the place apart?”

Callie raised his eyebrows. “Surprisingly, no. They seemed to be looking for something very specific.”

“Of course they were. The murder weapon.”

“The paper didn't say how he was killed so I have no idea,” Callie answered.

“Trust me, they don't either. They're on the wrong path.”

“What path do you think they should be on?”

Megan wanted to end the conversation regarding the police, warrants, all of it. “Talk about something else.” It was a command and not a request.

Callie started to rub Clyde's belly while staring into the fire, but Clyde was miffed at Megan's divided attention, and he settled himself on the floor. “So, today was your first day in the Polar Bear Club. How did it go?”

Megan punched him in the arm. “Ass!”

He pretended to punch back when Megan turned the wrong way, feeling a biting pain. “Damn it.”

“From your fall? Let me see.” He lifted her shirt. “You did take a tumble. Ice is pretty unforgiving.” He rubbed her shoulder. “That means only one thing then.”

“What?”

“You'll have to be on top.” He gave her the same smile he did freshman year in college. Now, as then, it worked.

Megan had forgotten how soft Callie's lips were. His kisses were slow and filled with intention. “Bedroom?”

Megan nodded in the direction.

“You never got that massage today, did you?”

She shook her head. “You know how to give a massage?”

“Come on.” He stood up and took Megan's hand. In the bedroom, he took his time removing her clothes. “I'd forgotten how beautiful your pale Irish skin is. You look exactly the same.” Callie removed Megan's hair clip, allowing her damp chestnut hair to fall over her shoulders. He knelt down and separated her legs slowly, massaging her below the waist.