Sullivan's Justice (10 page)

“No,” he said. “At least I don’t think I was. I saw her floating in the pool after I went to bed. I could see her through the sliding glass door in the bedroom.”

Carolyn would have to get Paul’s housekeeper, Isobel, to look after John and Rebecca. She threw on a pair of jeans and a white turtleneck sweater, then shoved her feet into a pair of sneakers. “I’m on my way. Stay calm. Don’t do or say anything until I get there.”

“I messed up again,” Neil said, his voice strangely calm. “I loved Laurel. I never meant for anything bad to happen to her.”

A sense of dread gripped Carolyn. “What are you saying? What did you do, Neil?” When he didn’t respond, she shouted, “Holy Mother of God, answer me! What did you do to Laurel?”

When she heard the dial tone, she raced down the hallway and out the front door of her house. She would call Paul from the road. She had to get to her brother before the police did.

 

 

Melody Asher sat in the dark, her face lit by the glow of computer monitors, as she plunged her spoon into the quart of Dreyers’ Rocky Road ice cream. Her red silk robe slipped off one shoulder, exposing her naked skin. She was naturally slender, one of the reasons modeling agencies had recruited her at the age of fifteen. That, of course, and her height. The ice cream was an indulgence she seldom allowed herself, even though her modeling days were behind her and she was now an actress. She still couldn’t afford to gain weight. Chubby actresses weren’t in great demand.

Melody felt she deserved to indulge in the thick chocolate, almonds, and light mini marshmallows that were melting in her warm mouth. Tonight, she’d given Neil something to remember. Now she owned him, like she’d owned all the other men who had passed through her life. Her philosophy regarding men was simple—give them something shocking to think about and they’d keep coming back for more. It was all part of her game plan, total control or nothing.

How could Neil have called her a slut? He’d had the time of his life. Just because she’d turned on the video camera and called him another man’s name. She’d filmed him before and he had never complained.

A month after Melody started dating Neil, she had tapped into his home security system. To protect his artwork, he had multiple cameras installed in every room of his house, as well as the front and rear exteriors. Without his knowledge, she’d attached a wireless transponder to the main system with an off-site receiver. This made it possible for her to receive and store movie files on her home computer.

After engaging in sex with Neil, Melody could experience the evening again. Her best orgasms came from watching. Even after she broke up with a man, she could revisit their sexual episodes whenever she wanted.

Melody watched all of her lovers.

Technology had brought voyeurism to an entirely different level. As far as she was concerned, every woman should keep tabs on her man. The head of her security company had warned her never to give anyone a key to her house. She chuckled as she recalled her reply. “Oh, I see, Keith,” she’d said, leaning forward so he could see her breasts. “Are you saying it’s all right if I give them access to my body as long as I don’t give them a key to my house? Does that mean my house has more value than my vagina?” She had watched as the man’s face turned beet red. Wearing a dress and no panties, she’d circled around to the back of his desk. “Maybe you could figure out a way to secure this?” she said, raising her skirt. “Then every time I want to have sex, you’ll have to come to my house.” The poor man had become so flustered, she was afraid he was going to have a heart attack. Dropping her skirt, she’d told him, “Why don’t I just change my locks—I don’t think your wife would want you coming over three or four times a day.”

Men were scum. They thought with their dicks. She had a right to know if they were cheating on her. She didn’t want to contract AIDS or some other sexually transmitted disease. Watching them was her insurance policy.

Technology was a cinch for her. Most people who came into contact with Melody thought she’d have trouble plugging in a blender. Playing dumb had been her first starring role. She’d always been a good actress, even as a child. Deceiving those around her was entertaining. That’s what life boiled down to, she thought, just passing time until you croaked.

She didn’t believe in God. When you died, your body rotted. She’d never once seen a dead body come back to life. Right and wrong only mattered if you got caught. Most religious people were weak-minded individuals who could only exist if their lives were guided by someone else. They were puppets on a string. The Bible was nothing more than a best-selling, poorly written work of fiction. She’d like to own the rights to that baby, she thought.

Part of the reason men became so infatuated with her was her feminine facade of helplessness. Because Melody asked them to set her clocks or figure out how to operate a new cell phone, they classified her as the stereotypical dumb blonde. Suckers, she thought. It wasn’t that she couldn’t do menial tasks, she didn’t want to. Why waste time when she could get someone else to do it for her?

Even her female friends were shocked when she lied and told them she didn’t know how to operate a computer. Her town house had what the realtor had touted as a penthouse. In reality, it was a room about the size of an average bedroom. The door was secured with Medeco locks, the key next to impossible to duplicate. In this room alone, she had three 50-inch plasma monitors, three Dell computers, an Atlas 8 EQ Reflector telescope with photo capability, numerous digital film cameras, and an Avid editing bay, similar to the kind used by film production companies. This was her viewing room.

While her girlfriends wasted hours shopping, chatting, playing kiddie games, and surfing the Web, Melody was either spying on someone or expanding her knowledge base. She spent hours reading about the criminal justice system. Crime and criminals were fascinating. She’d even studied briefly at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan, and had completed most of the agent training program at the FBI Academy before they discovered a discrepancy in her background investigation. Melody had threatened to file a lawsuit to get them to reinstate her, but her attorney told her it wasn’t worth it.

She had a myriad of intellectual interests. She loved technology, although she held a degree in both mathematics and psychology. A few years ago, she’d enrolled in Caltech, wanting to become proficient in physics. The other students had been astonished when the leggy blonde with the designer clothes and dynamite body had risen to the top of the class. Knowledge was her secret weapon.

Several months back, Melody was surprised when she saw a woman who appeared to be in her midthirties frequenting Neil’s place. Not only had he cheated on her, he’d looked her straight in the eye and denied it. Typical.

Men should be treated like dogs, taught to obey their masters. Sit when they were told to sit and fetch on command. If they got out of line, they would be swatted with a rolled-up newspaper or thrown out in the cold for the night. If they got sick or stopped being loyal, they were put to sleep. During her life, she’d put down a string of man’s best friends. Who wanted to be a damn dog, anyway? Maybe they’d be reincarnated as a woman.

Melody had watched Neil and the other woman jumping nude into the outdoor Jacuzzi. When they’d had sex, she was reminded of the nights she and Neil had spent together at his home in his backyard.

Opening one of her stored files, Melody’s hand drifted between her legs and her head fell back as she watched herself and Neil in the throes of ecstasy. She smelled the aroma of the Glenlivet scotch and heard the sound of the ice cubes tinging in the glass. Imagining Neil’s face between her legs as the action played out on the monitor, she became intensely aroused.

Melody suspected Neil had intended to break it off with her tonight. She could tell by the way he touched the other woman that he was in love with her. Mousy little thing, she thought. What in hell did he see in her? Her clothes looked like they came from Target. Even her maid had better taste.

Their affair would end when and how she wanted it to end. No one walked away from Melody Asher.

Turning to another monitor, she saw people moving around in Neil’s backyard. Her ice-cream spoon tumbled out of her hands onto the expensive carpet. The flashing lights of the emergency vehicles reflected off the wet pavement. Her eyes jumped to another monitor. She spotted Neil’s panicked face among the police officers in his backyard.

Her lower lip protruded as she spoke out loud, “You won’t be cheating on me now, Neil, not after I bail you out of jail.”

Melody was ripe for a little action. The news was more fun if you knew the players. She picked her spoon off the floor and finished savoring her ice cream.

 

 

 

 

 

B
y the time Carolyn arrived, Neil’s house was swarming with police and emergency personnel. She’d rushed out without remembering to bring an umbrella. At the time, it had only been sprinkling. Now it was pouring again and she was drenched. A dark-haired officer in his early twenties stopped her. His ID badge read DANIEL CUTTER. “This is a crime scene, lady.”

Carolyn fished her county ID out of her purse, holding it in front of his face.

“Was the man who owned this place your probationer?”

“No,” she said, never liking it when she found herself on the opposite side of the fence. “He’s my brother.”

“I’ll have to check with my sergeant.”

A middle-aged woman in a white flannel bathrobe pushed through the onlookers, taking a position next to Carolyn. “Do you know what happened here?” she asked, peering out from under her umbrella. “They said a girl was raped.”

Carolyn’s stomach rose in her throat. “Where did you hear that?”

“A guy over there told me,” she said, gesturing toward the crowd of spectators. “I’m not surprised, you know. The man who lives here is weird. He stays up all night and sleeps all day. My daughter thinks he’s a vampire. She went to his house selling Girl Scout cookies and he bit her head off. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and he was furious that she woke him. Can you believe it? I’ll never let her go there again, that’s for sure.” She stopped and extended her hand.

“I’m Joyce Elliot, by the way. I live in the house on the corner.”

“Excuse me, I have to check on something.” Carolyn moved a few feet away. Might as well get used to it, she told herself, knowing Neil had a rough time ahead of him. People loved excitement. If the truth wasn’t that interesting, they embellished, blending fact with fiction.

Her thoughts turned to Neil. He had been hysterical, she told herself. He didn’t know what he was saying. He would have never done anything to hurt Laurel. It had been a long day, and she had overreacted, let her imagination run wild. The woman’s death was a tragedy, but her brother had not done anything wrong. Maybe Laurel had got drunk and had accidentally fallen into the swimming pool. She might not have been able to swim. People drowned every day. Backyard swimming pools had always frightened her.

Laurel Goodwin was six years younger than Carolyn, but she had known her fairly well. She’d seen a lot of her back when Laurel and Neil had first started dating. Carolyn had also seen Laurel around town during her marriage, and assumed she was happy. It was emotionally wrenching to know she was dead. But it was Neil she was worried about. He appeared confident, but underneath, he was emotionally fragile. Because his income had substantially diminished during the past six months, he had begun making drastic changes in his life. He’d only resumed dating Laurel a short time ago. Carolyn had told him how foolish it was to ask Laurel to marry him. Neil could also be stubborn. He’d refused to listen to her. She shouldn’t have called him from the jail yesterday. When she’d called him back around noon to tell him she was all right, he’d been rushing out to pick up Laurel.

Hank Sawyer placed his hand on Carolyn’s shoulder and she jumped. “Guess you were right about not drinking tonight. How’s Preston? I heard our boy Raphael did a number on him.”

“He has a few broken vertebrae,” she told him, wincing. “I warned him. Moreno is a scary character. Brad’s lucky to be alive.”

Carolyn and Sawyer were close friends. He was not only a detective, but a sergeant over at the homicide division. “What are you doing here, Hank?” she asked, trying to appear nonchalant. “The poor woman drowned. I need to talk to my brother. He was terribly upset when he called me.”

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a homicide,” he said, chomping on a toothpick.

Carolyn felt her blood pressure shoot up twenty points. She knew now was the time to keep her mouth shut. Hank was here in an official capacity. Pushing past him into the house, she saw Neil seated at the kitchen table. His dark hair was wet, his eyes red and puffy, and he had one of the gray blankets used by the paramedics tossed over his shoulders. She pulled up a chair beside him. “What did you mean on the phone? Did something happen between you and Laurel?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I came home and found her. . . . She was . . . she was floating in the pool.” He stopped and wiped the tears from his eyes. “I tried to save her. She was . . . gone. Why would she go swimming at night during a rainstorm? It doesn’t make sense. All she had on was her underwear. I looked for the rest of her clothes, but I couldn’t find them.”

“Were you alone when you found her?”

“Yes,” Neil said. “It was late . . . after eleven. I’d already taken my medicine to help me sleep and gone to bed, then I saw . . .”

Carolyn looked up. Hank was conversing with a black detective named Mary Stevens.

She leaned over and whispered in her brother’s ear. “Don’t talk right now. The police are handling this as a homicide. You may be a suspect.”