Trace of Doubt (9 page)

Chapter 15

B
en called Lewis about what happened that night. Lewis called Mikey. Mikey called Dad. Dad called Tommy Salami.

And the next morning, when I rose predawn for work, Tommy Salami was waiting for me, sitting on the trunk of my car with a huge bag of McDonald’s and two extra-large coffees.

“Egg McMuffin?”

“You know I don’t eat that crap. And you were supposed to lay off it. What about your cholesterol?”

“Eh…I take my Lipitor. I can eat eggs.”

“Whatever,” I smiled at him. “Believe it or not, Tommy, it’s good to see you.”

“You know you shouldn’t drive on your spare tire. It’s a piece of shit. While you’re in the lab today, I’ll take it to get new tires. I checked out the treads. I think you can use a new left-front tire, too.”

I rolled my eyes. As the only daughter of Frank Quinn, I was used to all the guys in my life being overprotective pit bulls.

“Fine,” I said.

“And your father wants to know when the last time you changed the oil was.”

“Go ahead and get it changed.”

“Billie, you have to stay on top of routine maintenance.”

“This from a man who takes Lipitor so he can eat a dozen McMuffins each morning. How about a little maintenance on your health?”

“You know I can’t resist the golden arches, Billie.”

“Fine, you big lug, let’s go.”

I climbed into the driver’s seat. Tommy Salami easily weighed two hundred and eighty pounds. Most of it was muscle. He worked out each day, lifting weights, a regime he perfected during the four years he served for breaking and entering, with an assault charge thrown in for good measure. During the Suicide King case, he had been shot protecting me. My father treated him like another son since then, and I was fond of Tommy. But he reminded me of Bo—untrained and a little overgrown.

“I’d rather you let me drive, Billie,” he said, climbing into the passenger seat.

“I know that, Tommy, just as you know there’s no way I’m letting you drive, so let’s resume our little relationship the way it works for us, okay?”

“Okay, but if your father asks, you tell him you let me drive.”

“Fine.”

I pulled out into the road, checking my rearview mirror. I was in full paranoia mode. Seeing I wasn’t being followed, I headed for the Jersey Turnpike and then the lab.

I pulled into the parking garage and found a space on the second story.

“Now you know the drill, Tommy. Only I’m allowed in the lab. So…you can get the tires changed, the oil checked, and you can take a long lunch—I promise I’ll eat at my desk.”

“What time we going home tonight?”

“After work Ben Sato is coming to get me. He’s a detective. We have something to do. You can follow us, and then after that, we’ll go home.”

“What about dinner?”

Tommy liked his three squares.

“I’ll treat. How about that Italian place you like in Paramus?”

“Sounds good to me, Billie. Now you be careful.”

I winked at him as I climbed out of the car. “You, too.”

We locked eyes for a minute. I looked away first, welling up. Not many people will risk their life for you.

I walked out of the garage and into the lab, showing my badge. Lewis was in early, of course—he had beaten me by ten minutes according to the log at the security desk.

“Hey, Lewis,” I popped my head into his office.

“All in one piece?”

I nodded.

“Billie…sit down.”

“Please, no lectures. I know this is dangerous, but I’m so close. I know I am.”

“You’re so close because he’s decided to target you. The publicity from the Justice Foundation has put him over the edge. He hungers for infamy, for immortality. Think of how infamous he would be if he got to you, Billie. Your mother, then you all these years later.”

“I’m going to catch him first.”

Lewis shook his head. “I think you should go into protective custody until we process all the DNA we have related to this and see if we have a match.”

“Who put you up to this?”

“No one.”

“No…that’s not you. Who told you to talk to me? My dad?”

Lewis sighed. “Ben.”

I felt betrayed. “Why?”

“He thinks this guy won’t rest until he’s killed you. And his boldness—the attack in the vestibule out where he could have been seen or caught—means he’s not playing this cold and calculating. He’s taking risks. And that signals trouble. He’s not in control anymore. His demons are controlling him.”

“No protective custody. I came to work with Tommy Salami.”

“And no elaborate ruses to ditch him? You’ll let him guard you?”

I nodded. “I’ll be a good little girl.”

Lewis smiled wanly.

“You look even more morose than usual,” I said.

“Still nothing from C.C.”

“Lewis, you know, this isn’t something you can control, like the lab and its specimens. It’s the human heart, the single most unpredictable thing in the world.”

“I know…. Speaking of which, Joe and Vanessa are going to a major political fund-raiser tonight. Black tie at the Waldorf Astoria. Rubbing elbows with blue-bloods. What in God’s name does he see in her?”

“She’s beautiful but so transparent. How could our guy fall for her?” I concurred.

“I can’t stand it. And now that Marcus Hopkins was exonerated, he’s more famous than ever. He’s the go-to guy for celebrities now. Instead of Justice Foundation cases, he’s being inundated by celebrities gone wild who got themselves in a jam. Shop-lifting actresses, buttocks-grabbing B-listers.”

I shook my head and got up from the chair. “This is all giving me a headache. I’ve got a lot of rape kits to process today. Talk to you later.”

The day flew by. When we get the films back of DNA, it looks almost like key-punch cards. In general, at a crime scene, we take DNA from the victim. But then we also collect DNA from the people closest to the victim. It would only make sense, for instance, that a mother would have the DNA of her children and husband on her and around her. If we collect hair fibers, it is only logical that the hairs of all the people in the house would be scattered on carpets, on bed sheets and in the bathroom sink.

If we’re lucky, however, the culprit will also have left some of his DNA scattered about. Those samples that do not match the victim or any members of the victim’s household are the samples we come to believe belonged to the rapist or murderer. When the films come back, the key-punch-looking samples don’t line up in the same places as the known persons. That unknown key-punch, that unknown human bar code…that’s our guy.

I worked straight through lunch, stopping for a visit to the snack machine, where Cheez-Its and a cup of coffee constituted my meal. I lived a coffee-fueled existence, occasionally swearing off caffeine, only to come back to it, like a cast-off lover pleading to be let back into her partner’s bed.

Around six, security called and told me Ben Sato was there. I felt my heart lift for a moment, and then shook my head. Something about him connected us. I supposed, like David, like Lewis, a shared hint of melancholy. A shared existence like Achlys. In Lewis’s case, his first love was murdered and her body hidden in the bayou. He left academia for work in the crime lab and never looked back.

I phoned David. “I’m going to interview my mother’s former boyfriend tonight. Then I’m collecting DNA from my dad’s house. I won’t be home until late.”

“Does your father know?”

“No. I can’t bring myself to tell him. I suppose that makes me a terrible daughter.”

“No. It just makes you a daughter determined to find her mother’s killer, no matter where the truth leads you.”

“What are you up to?”

“Well, the news has broken about Tony Castle. I’m here in the Justice Foundation’s offices. The phones are ringing off the hook and there are press people camping out on the sidewalk.”

“Great. Just what I need. More of my name and face making the papers.”

“Exactly. You be extra careful.”

“I will.”

“Billie?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you going to interview this guy with Ben Sato?”

I hesitated. “Ye-es.”

I held my breath waiting for David to get angry or mistrusting again.

“Good. I want someone there with you, and if it can’t be me, it should be him. Listen, Billie…I had a moment of jealousy. You’re my girl. You know,” he lowered his voice, I guess so no one there would overhear him. “Every time we make love, those first seconds when I slide inside you my soul leaves me. I love you, and I’m sorry I acted the way I did.”

“It’s okay. And for the record, when you first go inside me, I feel that way, too.”

I hung up the phone, smiling to myself. After saying good-night to Lewis, I went to the lobby where Ben waited for me, wearing a dark suit expertly tailored to his physique. He gave a small bow, and I bowed back.

“Come. I’ll drive.”

“I have a bodyguard today. I need to have him follow us. He won’t get in the way.” At least I hoped he wouldn’t.

Ben smiled. “Good. I was thinking perhaps I would have to guard you.”

I thought of telling him I didn’t appreciate his suggestion to Lewis that I needed protective custody, but decided not to. Maybe after what he shared about his sister, it seemed like a chivalrous gesture to me.

Ben followed me to the parking garage. I noticed his walk was very fluid. For his size he moved gracefully. On the other hand, Mr. Salami was anything but graceful. When we got to my car, Tommy was waiting, leaning against the trunk.

“Look, Billie…got it washed and waxed, too.”

My Cadillac did shine.

“Thanks, Tommy. This is Detective Ben Sato.”

Tommy looked like a scared little boy.

“Don’t worry, Tommy. He’s happy you’re watching over me. He’s not interested in your record.”

At that, Tommy visibly relaxed and shook Ben’s hand.

“Listen, Tommy, we have to go to Ridgewood. Do you want to meet me at the Italian place? I could have Ben drop me off.”

“I’m supposed to stick to you like glue. Those were your father’s exact words.”

“I know,” I said gently, “but I have a real, live police detective with me, so it would be all right if we simply met at the restaurant. Go shop at the mall or something. I’ll meet you there at eight. Okay? No sense you following us just to sit outside while we interview a potential witness.”

Cautiously he said, “Okay. But if your father asks, I never left your side.”

“Fine.”

Tommy got behind the wheel of my car and drove away, and Ben and I got into his Acura and headed toward Ridgewood to visit Daniel Carter. Ben had phoned him about a “police matter,” and we were scheduled to meet him at his office.

Ridgewood is a rather Currier & Ives kind of town, picturesque, with a main street of little quaint shops. We found the Carter Professional Plaza and then Daniel’s office.

Ben and I entered. The lobby area was tasteful and elegant, but not opulent, with very thick carpeting in a blue the color of a Delft plate, and antique reproductions. In one corner stood a tall display cabinet filled with miniature tall ships, all hand carved with astounding detail down to the little portholes and ropes and life rafts. Next to each ship was a completion date:
Lady Hawke,
Daniel Carter, completed May 1997.

“Amazing,” I whispered.

Ben bent down to look more closely at one. “Talented man.”

A receptionist entered the waiting area.

“I’m sorry, I stepped out to freshen up. Are you Detective Sato?” she asked Ben.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Carter’s expecting you. Office over there in the corner,” she gestured. “Good night.”

Ben and I said good-night and went and rapped softly on Daniel’s office door.

“Come on in,” came a voice on the other side.

We entered the impressive corner office. The furnishings were antique, and an immense saltwater tank took up one entire wall.

“Mr. Carter,” Ben stuck out his hand.

“Sit down. Now, I have to say I’m very curious why exactly you’re here.”

“This is Billie Quinn.” Ben waited for the recognition to cross Daniel’s face. It did in an instant.

“My God, you look just like Claire.”

“Thank you,” I said softly.

“Some developments have occurred with respect to the investigation into Mrs. Quinn’s death. We were hoping to interview you.”

“Anything.” He gestured toward two chairs. Like my father, Daniel Carter was still very attractive, probably around fifty-five. He was sandy blond, with the tan of a man who got to golf frequently—or sail, judging by his hobby. His eyes were hazel, and he had a small cleft in his chin. I watched Daniel for any hint of guilt. There was none that I could see.

“Tell me about your relationship with her,” Ben said.

“She was the love of my life. After we broke up, I eventually married, you know. Twice, in fact. But it never worked out. I wouldn’t have traded my marriages. I’m still good friends with my first wife, and my second wife gave me a wonderful son—Brendan. He’s at Yale. But Claire was the one. I used to think perhaps I just recalled her so perfectly because she was my first love, but really, there was something extraordinary about her. Smart as a whip, funny, charming, but so humble, so caring. We dated exclusively for a long time, and I just couldn’t get my nerve up to ask her to marry me. Marriage seemed so huge at twenty-two. Huge. Then she met Frank, and…they were married in a very short time. My eternal loss.”

“Did that upset you?” Ben asked.

“Of course. Not anger, though. I was sad for a long, long time. I just…was sad. But you know, time heals. I moved on. We’d keep in touch from time to time. Exchange Christmas cards. I ran into her occasionally—once my father was having open-heart surgery in the same hospital as Frank’s mother. Just one of those weird coincidences. We ran into each other in the hospital gift shop. We decided to grab some coffee in the cafeteria. We caught up. She showed me pictures of you.” He looked at me. “God, it’s uncanny.”

“And then how did you hear about her murder?”

“I heard about her disappearance first. I knew it was foul play. I knew Claire. She was so responsible. She just wasn’t the type to walk away from her life. I phoned the police and told them just that, but the lead detective, he was not overly receptive.”