“Father Keegan, I’m having trouble pinpointing deception. That woman who came to see you… She was here tonight. Claims that someone is after her, but I don’t know if she is just trying to throw me off the trail, or if there really is someone after her.”
“Meet me at Chauncey’s in twenty minutes. I need a pint.”
Chauncey’s is a dank little pub two blocks over from my house and four blocks from the church. I arrived at 12:45 a.m. and headed for a pair of stools at the end of the dimly lit bar. I had a pint of Guinness waiting when Father Keegan arrived. His wispy white hair crept out from underneath a black skullcap and his brown eyes showed exhaustion. I felt bad for disturbing my elderly friend at such a late hour.
“Father, I’m sorry for keeping you awake. I had to send Martin on a job and—”
He waved off my apology and picked up his pint, holding it in mid-air, motioning for a toast.
“I know how it is to be lonely, to be the person that everyone turns to—not that I am having these issues. I’m just saying that I understand.”
Life had been lonely since Derek’s death. Initially, I hadn’t thought of my call to Father Keegan as a cry for help, but maybe it was in a way. I needed someone.
“Thanks for understanding,” I said, lifting my glass and clinking it against Father Keegan’s.
“So, what has you stumped?”
“I don’t know if this woman is guilty or if she’s trying to throw me off the scent. She was my number one suspect, but now she is telling me that someone is after her. Perhaps it is the same killer, but why wait so long to strike?”
“Well, maybe it’s not so black and white. Maybe the woman is protecting something or someone. She might be afraid of what will happen if you find out the truth, but she may not have had anything to do with the murder itself.”
“She’s protecting someone because…”
“Because she thought they were justified—something like a killing in the name of righting a wrong. Yes, killing is still wrong, but there’s more to it. It’s like the amount of culpability in a crime.”
“Like sin?”
“Yes, like sin. There are venial and mortal sins, but the severity of a mortal sin can be reduced by the circumstances surrounding the situation.”
“As in killing someone in self-defense.”
“Exactly. It sounds like you remember that lesson.”
“I definitely remember “Revisiting Confession”. You gave us fifth graders that handout with a million pages. I never thought I’d read that thing, but I did read it; it stills sticks in my mind.”
I took a drink and reminisced about elementary school. My brother had been gone for only a few months at that time. I remember being so angry with him……so resentful and full of hate that I hadn’t been able to miss him. At times, it seemed like things were so easy back then, but nothing was—or ever had been—easy. Funny how our minds try to convince us that the past was better than it was.
“Sylvia, you aren’t necessarily looking for deception. You could be looking for mercy—misguided mercy perhaps, but someone is looking out for another person who didn’t deserve what happened to them. Or, maybe you’ve got the wrong suspect.”
I thought of Madelyn Price. She’d been cagey, but maybe she was hiding something other than the fact that she was a murderer. Maybe she was protecting something, or someone else. Yes, she and Liza had a shaky past, but they had clearly moved past all of that. Why wait so long to strike? The rationale didn’t make sense.
“Misguided mercy,” I repeated. “Interesting. I guess my suspect could be protecting someone else, or I could just have the wrong suspect. I hadn’t really looked at it from that angle.”
“I don’t know exactly what you’re dealing with, but think of what the suspect cares about. What does the person hold dear?”
“She’s an activist of some kind. She’s really doing good in the world, but she does it in a covert manner. Very few people know what she’s doing.”
“She doesn’t want to be a hero…Well, that tells you that the opposite of the obvious is probably what’s going on. Sounds like a puzzle, but I bet you’ll figure it out. You’ve always been one smart cookie.” Father Keegan turned his glass up and guzzled the last of the beer. I did the same before tossing a twenty-dollar bill onto the bar.
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning, I slept in a bit, waiting until after 5:00 a.m. to rise. After two cups of coffee, I ran my usual route, showered, and was dressed by 6:15. Whether or not Danica was attending school was debatable, but many of the folks in Brightmoor were underemployed, and sending kids out to school was often a reprieve from being surrounded by children. When I was a cop, we’d run into scores of teenagers roaming the streets during school hours, most likely taking part in petty drug deals. Parents in Brightmoor sent their children out into the world every morning, but school was not the landing place for many teens. Alyssa had a house full of children; sending them to school would be her only relief.
Even though it was early in the day, young people could be seen scattered throughout the neighborhood. I made it to Brightmoor by 7:00 a.m. and parked down the street from Alyssa Masters’ house. Some of the younger children emerged from the house and headed down the street I stayed near the end of the street and watched the house for almost two hours before the teenage girl I’d seen the other day came out the front door. She was wearing baggy blue jeans that hung loose on her hips, and a red-and-black flannel shirt. I knew what that meant: gang affiliation, or a wannabee. Either way, it told me a bit about her mentality. Her thick, curly hair was pulled back into a bun and restrained under a red bandana. A tattered brown backpack hung from her shoulder, and her face was pushed close to a cell phone screen. I started the car and cruised down the street, following her at a steady speed. She appeared to be headed to Fenkell, probably to a bus stop. I considered stopping her, but decided it would be more interesting to find out where she was going.
The girl stopped on Fenkell Avenue and waited at a bus stop that was shrouded in litter and early spring grass. The backpack hung from her left shoulder. She was intently focused on her cell phone, fingers moving swiftly across the screen. I waited at the corner of the street for ten minutes and watched her get on the bus. I lagged under the speed limit, following three car-lengths back, waiting to see if she got off the bus. Surprisingly, she seemed to be going to school. After the closure of Redford High, most Brightmoor students ended up at Cody High School, which required a somewhat lengthy bus ride. I drove ahead and took a chance, parking on a side street adjacent to the school and waiting for the bus to arrive.
As I heard the bus roaring down the street, I got out of the car and stood near the small shelter near the bus stop.
“Danica,” I said, as the girl stepped off the bus. She turned and looked, her thick, dark hair concealing the side of her face. As soon as my face registered, she took off running. She was in full flight, running north of the school into a neighborhood of burnt-out houses, but the forty-five strapped to my ankle provided some comfort. I hadn’t expected to venture into a Detroit neighborhood. Proceed with caution, I reminded myself as I closed in on the girl. Her backpack and purse flapped against her back. She was fast, but after a block, she slowed down, tripped, and fell to the ground. I grabbed hold of her backpack.
“Calm down. I just have a few questions,” I said, holding on to the squirming teen.
“I ain’t saying nothin’!”
“Listen, I’m going to let go of your backpack. Do not try to run, okay?” I waited until she nodded her head in agreement.
Danica Masters was short in stature, and her face had been weathered by years of living in uncertainty. Her body was swimming under her oversized clothes.
“Danica, I just want to solve a murder. A woman was murdered in cold blood, and I just want to know why.”
“How would I know anything?”
“I just want to question anyone who is connected to the deceased. I
assume that you know why I want to talk to you.”
Danica nodded, but didn’t speak. She folded her arms and tried to look tough, but failed miserably. Underneath the thuggish exterior was a scared little girl.
“I’m here to ask some questions about your parents.”
She tried to look uninterested, but I saw a slight gleam of interest in her eyes.
“Do you know this woman?” I slid a picture of Liza out of my pocket. Danica looked at the photo. There was no recognition in her eyes. She shook her head—no. Next, I pulled out a picture of Madelyn Price and showed it to her.
“Do you know this woman?” Danica’s eyes lit up.
“I don’t know her, but I seen her around.”
“Where?”
“Brightmoor. She come around every now and then. Sometimes she go to that fish place, and she drive through every now and then.”
“What else can you tell me about her?”
I stalled, feeling guilty about the next line of questioning. The poor girl didn’t recognize a picture of her own mother.
“Wait.” Danica raised her head and looked me in the eye for the first time.
“Was that…my ma?”
Suddenly the rough-and-tumble street thug looked like a small child. I hesitated before responding.
“Yes. That was a picture of your mother.”
“Can I see it again?”
I handed her the picture. Danica ran her fingers over the photo, as if she was trying to touch her mother. This wasn’t quite what I had expected. A cloud of shame came over me as I recognized that I was putting her through the pain of reminiscing about the abandonment.
“Do you ever see your father?”
She looked up from the picture. “Yeah. When we had a car, Auntie would drive me up there. Our car been in the shop, so we ain’t been up in a while. But we write, me and my dad.”
“So you know about your mother, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you have any contact with your mother?”
“No, but I know she sent money to whoever was taking care of me. It still come.”
A stipend for anyone who would care for Danica…sad, but interesting. It was also interesting that it was still being sent. Who was sending money? Carson?
“How long have you lived with your aunt?”
“’Bout a month. Foster parents got tired of me; sent me back.”
“Why were you calling your aunt ‘Mom’?”
“’Cause she all the momma I ever known! What you think?”
Strange—she’d only been there for a month. Even so, I felt guilty for torturing Danica with questions.
“Okay, so you’ve seen the lady in the second photo. Can you tell me exactly where you’ve seen her, besides the fish place?”
“Around. Usually Dacosta, Dolphin—those streets by the fish place. She must know people ’round there.”
I thought about Martin stashed away with Madelyn. Was he safe? I wondered if I had set him up to protect a murderer.
“Okay. Make sure that you head to school. If you don’t, I’ll report you for truancy.” An idle threat, but maybe she would think that it was a possibility and actually head to school. I let go of Danica’s backpack and headed back to the car. Danica took off fast in the opposite direction. I considered following her, but decided that she was probably just skipping school. Not to mention, I had a bone to pick with Alyssa Masters. Why had she lied to me? Why agree to meet, but not tell me that Danica was living with her?
I needed to check on Martin. The longer he was with Madelyn, the more uneasy I felt. I called him when I got back into the car.
“How are things going?”
“Fine, but I’m not sure Madelyn is in danger at this point. We’re really off the beaten path.”
“Yeah, I was just thinking that. How far are you from the office?
“’Bout two hours away.”
“There’s been a development. Meet me at the office in two and a half.”
***
“So, Demario and Liza’s daughter is alive, and she lives with her aunt. This makes me think that the husband should be added back to the suspect list,” Martin said.
“Why is that?”
“Think about it…Liza is dead; Carson and his children inherit everything unless there is another child: one in need. She lives in Brightmoor, and they live in Northville Township.”
“Someone’s paying a stipend for Danica.”
“Well, maybe it was rage…Carson killed Liza because he discovered Danica existed. What if Liza was sending money to the girl behind his back? What if he had no idea Danica existed until a few years ago, right before Liza was murdered?”
It was an interesting angle, but Carson didn’t really need money, and a small stipend didn’t seem like something he would flip out over. He had been wealthy long before he met Liza, and her death hadn’t changed his financial situation, but what if he had found out that Liza had a child by another man? A secret child? What would his reaction have been? Money is one thing, but finding out that your wife had neglected to tell you she had an illegitimate child might be a bit much.
“Let’s look at Carson again. I wonder if he knew about Danica.”
“He could have been completely in the dark about her, but if he found out, I doubt that he would like the fact that his wife lied to him. Does he seem violent?”
“No. In fact, he is rather gentle with the children and the housekeeper. He seems to be a Type A personality, but he’s mild in that sense, and he doesn’t give off the vibe of a murderer.”
“So, what’s our next move?” Martin asked.
There were avenues to explore, but just because there were secrets, I couldn’t draw the conclusion that all secrets were related to the crime. Some people keep secrets to protect those they love; I knew that all too well.
“I’ll interview Carson once more. You’re coming with me this time. Watch for his reaction when I bring up Danica. I also need to talk with the Abernathys again. They have a granddaughter out there they might not know about, but if they do know about her, I’m curious about why they didn’t mention her. Alyssa Masters deserves another visit as well. She conveniently forgot to tell me that Danica lived with her, and the two pretended to be mother and daughter.”
“What’s the angle there?”
“Alyssa could just be protecting Danica, but I don’t know why. Is she protecting her because she’s guilty of a crime? Or because she’s a child who has already experienced so much pain?”
“What are you hoping to learn from the Abernathys?”
“The Abernathys’ daughter was murdered, and I’m trying to find the murderer. My hope is that they will be inspired to share whatever they know with me. All information is pertinent until it isn’t. They have a granddaughter who has been left on various doorsteps, and their daughter is dead. What is going on there? Did Demario get angry about this abandonment? Is Danica seething with hatred and resentment for being left to poverty-stricken relatives when her mother was living in the lap of luxury?”
“Liza didn’t just burn bridges, she set eternal fires.”
“Right. She altered the lives of several people; the grudges could run deep.”
“What do you want me to do with Madelyn?”
I had almost forgotten about her.
“Have you talked with her much?”
“Not really. She seems nervous and cagey. If Carson didn’t kill his wife, this Madelyn lady did. She’s so odd.”
“Being odd doesn’t mean she’s a killer. Go back and spend a couple more hours with her. Talk to her about Liza and see how she reacts. I’m heading to the Abernathys’ first and Alyssa’s after that. We’ll touch base this evening.”
I arrived at the Abernathys’ house around noon. Once again, Mrs. Abernathy pulled the front door open before I could knock. She was dressed in pale blue Capri pants and a flower print tunic. Her hair was swept up into a hair clip. A few shining blonde strands fell fre
ely over the seashell adornment at the back of her head.
“Mrs. Wilcox. How can I help you?”
“Mrs. Abernathy, there have been some developments. Would you mind if I asked you a few more questions?”
I remembered the emotional outburst that had taken place last time we’d talked. My heart was beating in my throat, but I kept my voice soft and calm, as if it didn’t matter whether she agreed to talk with me or not. I watched her eyes go from suspicious to curious and sad. No matter how crazy she was, the motherly instinct, the need to know what had happened to her daughter, caused her creased brow to smooth out and her head to tilt.
“I don’t have much time, but you can come in,” Mrs. Abernathy said, stepping back and allowing me to enter the house.
The information I had to share wouldn’t be pleasant. I knew it was a risk, but I had to resurrect the past if I hoped to solve the case.
“Would you like tea?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Abernathy.”
“I’m going to get my husband. If you have news about Liza, he’ll want to hear it.”
I followed her into the living room, took a seat, and waited. Mrs. Abernathy headed upstairs and, after what sounded like a muffled argument, the couple emerged. Mr. Abernathy’s hair was ruffled, and his eyes were red. It looked like he had been taking a nap.
“Mrs. Wilcox…My wife says you have information about Liza. If that’s true, I think we should fire all the police in Detroit and have you solve the city’s cold cases,” Mr. Abernathy said in a sarcastic, but jovial voice.
“Well, I do have some information. First, I’m wondering if you knew that Liza had a child while living in Brightmoor. Since she was living in a house you owned, I assume that you know about Danica.”
Mrs. Abernathy stood up and left the room. Mr. Abernathy watched her leave, but didn’t say anything.
“I’ve learned that you own houses in Brightmoor. You rented a house to Liza and Demario Masters, correct?”
My question was greeted with silence and a blank look.
“Mr. Abernathy, I’m not here to judge you or your family…I just need to know what happened when Liza was living in Brightmoor. Now, this may come as a shock, but I think that Madelyn Price might have something to do with your daughter’s murder.”
Who She Was Page 22
