The Betrayed (5 page)

“I guess the younger generation is that way with all of us,” Train said. “My own daughter thinks I still belong in the 1950s.” Lydia Chapin nodded icily, clearly offended at the notion that a lowly police detective—black at that—could place himself on her plane. Train cleared his throat. “Mrs. Chapin, I know this is hard, but was your daughter having any problems we should know about?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“No gambling or anything like that?”

“Certainly not.”

“Do you know whether your daughter used drugs?”

“Drugs?”
Mrs. Chapin made it sound as if she had never heard the word before. “I know she decided to live in an area unsuitable for her and my granddaughter, but believe me, her sense of dignity would never have fallen so low as to allow her to take up those kinds of habits.” She paused for a moment. “Not to mention the fact that she had a daughter to take care of.”

“So you’re sure? No evidence of drug use?”

“Not just
no evidence
, Detective; no drug use.”

“Not even a possibility?”

“None.”

Train nodded. “Did your daughter have any enemies? Was there anyone who had ever made any threats toward her?”

“I can’t think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt my daughter,” she replied. “She was always the loveliest young woman.”

“No enemies?” Train pressed.

Sydney’s head turned toward her mother as the question was asked. The movement was subtle, and although Mrs. Chapin did not return the look, there was something in the way her body stiffened that made clear she’d seen her daughter’s reaction to the question.

“Certainly none that I was aware of,” Mrs. Chapin said. The silence persisted as both detectives continued to stare at her, trying to draw her out. After a pause, her hand went to her chin, and then to her hair in a nervous gesture. “I suppose you would have to ask at her place of employment to be sure; there might be something there that I wouldn’t know about.” She spat out the phrase “place of employment” as if it was the vilest utterance she could bring herself to pronounce.

Cassian looked across the coffee table at Sydney. He recognized her from the photographs on the bookshelf in Elizabeth Creay’s apartment. She was more attractive in person than she had appeared in the pictures, though it was an understated, effortless beauty. She had the preppie-gone-to-seed look that so many children of the wealthy affect in their twenties. She was still looking at her mother as if trying to catch her attention.

“How about you, Ms. Chapin?” Cassian asked her.

Sydney seemed startled when she realized that he was talking to her, as if she believed her mother’s involvement in the conversation absolved her of any responsibility to participate.

“Me?” she asked, sounding foolish, as she turned to Cassian.

“Yes, you,” Jack replied. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt your sister?”

She shook her head tentatively, looking at her mother as she did. “I’ve been out on the West Coast for the past nine years,” she said, as though it answered the question. “I’m in law school out at Stanford.”

Jack nodded. “Good school,” he said. “Great basketball team.”

“Tiger Woods went there, too, didn’t he?” Train added.

“That’s right, he did,” Jack agreed. “I can’t remember if he graduated, though.” The two officers nodded at each other like they had hit upon some matter of importance with respect to Stanford’s athletic programs. Then Jack turned back to Sydney. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt your sister?” He asked it as if it was the first time he’d raised the subject.

“Well,” Sydney began. She cast a furtive glance over toward her mother at the other end of the sofa, but Lydia Chapin continued to look straight in front of her. “There’s Leighton,” Sydney said.

“Oh, please!” Lydia objected. “Leighton would never do something like this.”

Jack looked back and forth between Lydia and Sydney; neither of them would meet his eyes. Then he looked over at Train, who shrugged his shoulders to indicate that he, too, was in the dark. “Who’s Leighton?” Cassian asked, directing the question to Sydney.

She took a deep breath. “Leighton Creay. Liz’s ex-husband.”

Cassian flipped through his notes. “I have her ex-husband listed as a John Creay.”

“Leighton’s his middle name; that’s what he goes by. It’s a family thing: J. Leighton Creay.”

Both detectives looked expectantly at Sydney, waiting for more. When no further explanation was forthcoming, Jack pursued the issue. “Is he violent?”

Sydney looked at her mother again. “When their marriage ended a couple of years ago, things got ...unpleasant.” It sounded to Jack like “unpleasant” was a euphemism Sydney had learned from her mother.

Again silence overwhelmed the room, and this time it was Train who pressed the issue. “Could you define ‘unpleasant’ for us a little? Did they stop exchanging Christmas cards, or are we dealing with something a little more serious?”

“We will not define anything for you, Detective,” Lydia interjected firmly. She gave her daughter a stern look before turning back to Train. “Really, I can’t imagine anything more offensive. Drugs . . . private marital issues . . . it would almost seem as though my daughter were the suspect in this inquiry, rather than the victim.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, ma’am,” Train replied in a steady voice. “But we’re conducting a murder investigation, and we need to know who we should be talking to.”

“Well, I would think you should be talking to the people in that dreadful neighborhood where my daughter chose to live. As you said, this appears to be an unfortunate burglary.” She took a deep breath and shook her head. “There would seem to be no reason, then, to dredge up old, painful memories, or to besmirch my daughter’s good name—and the name of her family. Particularly when it looks like those issues have nothing to do with my daughter’s death.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Jack pointed out.

“You have no idea, Detective,” Lydia Chapin replied. Jack thought he caught the hint of a threat in her tone.

“Are we missing something here?” Train asked. “I’d think you’d want to do anything you could to find whoever killed your daughter.”

“Obviously we will provide whatever information we can to help with the investigation, but my daughter’s marriage is not

relevant here. Neither is Leighton; he didn’t do this.”

“Why are you protecting him?” Train pressed.

“I’m not protecting him; I’m protecting my family.”

“But Mom, if there’s any chance that Leighton is involved, shouldn’t we—” Sydney began, but her mother cut her off.

“Hush, child, before you do damage!”

Lydia Chapin’s outburst startled everyone in the room. She had been so calm and self-assured throughout the interview— right down to her cookies and coffee and polite evasions—that the eruption seemed out of character. Even Sydney seemed shocked, Jack noticed, and she immediately shut her mouth. The room was still for a moment as Lydia collected herself. Then she turned back to her visitors.

“I apologize,” she said, although no apology seemed to be intended. “It has been a long day and I’m tired. I’d like you both to leave now, please; I don’t want my granddaughter disturbed. If there is anything else we need to discuss, we can do it at a later time.”

Jack and Train looked at each other. Train, who had been leaning over with his elbows resting on his knees, sat up straight in his chair. “Ma’am, I know how terrible this day has been, but we’ve got to do our job. If we go back to the station without getting the basic information”—he gave an apologetic shrug—“well, let’s just say that our boss won’t be too happy with us.”

Lydia Chapin seemed to consider this for a moment. “Your boss reports to the chief of police, I assume?” she asked at last.

Train hesitated. “Yes,” he said after a moment.

“Who, in turn, reports to the mayor, presumably?”

Train frowned as he nodded.

“Then you needn’t worry, Detective,” she said. “I’m having dinner with the mayor later this week, and I will be sure to tell him what an excellent job you two are doing.” She stood up, flattening her skirt against her thighs. “You can face your superiors without fear,” she concluded, gesturing toward the foyer in a clear attempt to usher the detectives out of the house.

“I don’t think you understand,” Jack objected.

“No, Detective, it’s you who doesn’t understand.” She looked directly at Cassian, and he could see the steel in her eyes. It was set hard and firm within her core, and Jack could tell that she would be a formidable adversary in any setting. But as he looked into her eyes, underneath the determination he could see something else. Agony. He could see the anguish under the woman’s resolve trying to fight its way out to the surface. Any more pressure, Jack thought, and she might just lose her control.

And then it was gone; the pain and sadness had disappeared from her eyes. Jack opened his mouth to say something—to see if he could draw the anguish back toward the surface—but she cut him off with a wave of her arm. “Please, Detective. Don’t make me call my lawyer. That won’t help any of us.”

“T
HAT WAS WEIRD
,” Jack said once they were outside.

“You could say that,” Train agreed. “Rich people,” he scoffed. “I’ll never understand ’em, as long as I live.” He looked over at his partner. “You grew up rich, right? Ivy League, silver spoon, and all that crap?”

“William and Mary. Not actually Ivy League. And I didn’t grow up rich—not by those people’s standards, anyway. That’s a whole different ball game in there.”

“You think the mother’s really just protecting the family’s reputation?” Train shook his head. “It’s hard for me to believe. I mean, her daughter was murdered, for Christ’s sake. Doesn’t there come a point where some things are more important than your reputation at the country club?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Jack agreed. “Then again, when you’re talking about this kind of money, the family’s rep
utation takes on a whole different level of significance.”

“Whatever.”

“In any case, we need to add the ex-husband to our list of possibles to check out.”

“Leighton,”
Train scoffed. “Nice fuckin’ names you white folks are partial to.”

“Oh, okay, Darius.”

Train scowled. “Don’t even start with me.”

Cassian sighed as he looked down at his watch. It was nine-thirty, and his day had begun before six.
I’m underpaid
, he thought as he felt the stress pulling at his shoulders, twisting his neck into knots. He thought about his brother and the empty stare that was all that was left of him.

“You wanna grab a beer?” Train asked.

Cassian shook his head. “Not tonight.”

“Okay.” Train nodded. “Get at it early in the morning tomorrow, then?”

“Do we have a choice?”

z

Sydney sat at the edge of the bed in her childhood room. It looked nothing like it had nine years before, when she still lived in her parents’ house. Gone were the models and posters of her youth; gone were the ribbons and trophies she had earned in various different sports; gone was any hint that the room had once been her sanctuary.

She couldn’t bring herself to feel hurt, or even surprised any
more, though. Her mother had never been sentimental. Within a week after Sydney’s father died, her mother had cleared the closets of all of his clothes, shipping them out to Goodwill even before her husband had been laid to rest. “No point in wasting closet space,” she had explained coldly. “Besides, it isn’t as though we ever had a son who might like to keep some of his things.” The comment had wounded Sydney at the time, who had always sensed a hint of disappointment from her parents that she had not been born male.

As she sat in her old room, her emotions shifted back and forth between anguish and fear: anguish at her sister’s death, and fear over what it might mean for her own future. She also found herself feeling angry: angry at her sister for leaving the world; angry at God for letting her sister be murdered; angry at her mother for her inability to show any semblance of maternal sensitivity and warmth; but most of all, angry at herself for letting herself be so manipulated by her mother.

She got up from the bed and began to disrobe, slipping out of her jeans and shirt, leaving them crumpled on the floor as she stood in her underwear. Her mother had had the maid lay out an old nightgown on the bed, and Sydney picked it up to examine it. It was an ungainly thing with long sleeves and a high collar. She tossed it on the chair in the corner of the room and went to the drawer, pulling out a well-worn T-shirt. She took off her bra and slipped the T-shirt over her head, then climbed into bed.

She turned out the light and lay back on the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. Why had she let her mother bully her in front of the two police officers as she had? She was no longer a scared little child, and she was beholden to her mother for very little anymore. And yet she had let it happen.

Then, as she lay there in the quiet, another question came to her—one that suddenly seemed more pressing: why had her mother so adamantly defended Leighton? Certainly Leighton had originally been her mother’s choice for Elizabeth, and as had always seemed the case, she had gotten her way. When the marriage ended, Sydney knew there had been recriminations between Elizabeth and her mother. Still, even for all her mother’s prior support of Leighton, it was hard to imagine that

she would still protect him. Things had gone too far for that, hadn’t they?

And yet Sydney had allowed herself to be silenced by her mother, and she was angry with herself for that. Never again, she vowed.

L
ESS THAN A MILE
from the Chapin home, Peter King walked up Twenty-eighth Street, Northwest, at a neutral pace. He kept his head still, seemingly indifferent to the world around him, but his eyes darted from side to side, taking everything in. Physi
cally, he was the kind of man who drew no attention. He was neither tall nor short; neither fat nor thin; and his hair was the sort of middling brown that stood out to no one. As he walked, he unconsciously clutched his right hand into a fist, rubbing his thumb compulsively over the stub of a little finger that had been blown off during a particularly trying mission in the first Gulf War.