MacNamara's Woman

by Lisa Gardner

  “It’s okay,” she said quietly. “I understand. It was a big-enough shock for me to wake up in the hospital. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for Patty to go to bed at night, then wake up the next morning in her same bed in her same room and hear you say that the people she cared about—her second family—were dead.”

  Mr. Foster sighed. “It wasn’t even that simple. She wasn’t in her bed. You know how Patty was back then—angry, rebelling, trying to get me to notice her. Well, to make a long story short, she didn’t come home until the night after your accident, Tamara. Then she dragged herself through the doorway with her head bowed, waiting to see what I would do. I was frantic, of course. I’d spent eighteen hours trying to find her, with visions of Armageddon in my head. I . . . I didn’t handle it very well. I yelled at her. I told her angrily that you were in serious condition and your whole family was dead. She went pale as a sheet, Tammy. Then she looked at me with the most horrible expression of guilt. She’d been playing hooky, and look at the punishment she got—your family was dead. She collapsed. Fainted away. I’ve often . . . I’ve often thought the death of your family hurt her more than her mother’s. She at least rebelled against her mother’s death. After hearing about your family, something in her just gave up. She never broke curfew again. She threw away all her short skirts. She stopped wearing makeup. She became this quiet, serious, fearful girl. Sometimes at night, I’d actually hope she’d ask to go to a concert again and stay out all night. Funny, huh? Life keeps you guessing.”

  Tamara couldn’t think of anything to say. She nodded into the telephone.

  Mr. Foster cleared his voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lay it on you that thickly. I just wanted . . . I just wanted to say I’m sorry, Tamara. Patty and I both should’ve been there for you. I wish we had been. Your parents were wonderful people, generous neighbors, good parents. I miss them a great deal.”

  “Thank you,” Tamara murmured. Her throat had become thick, but she didn’t feel like crying. “It was very nice of you to call, Mr. Foster—”

  “Please, call me Peter.”

  “Peter . . . I . . . I would like to see those pictures sometime.”

  “I’ll bring them over to the Ancient Mariner and leave them for C.J.”

  “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

  “And, Tamara . . . as for the rest of this . . . well, good luck. I know I haven’t seen you in ten years, but the girl I knew would never be capable of murder. I hope the trial goes . . . goes well.”

  “Thank you.” The awkwardness had returned. Obviously, there was no good way to talk to someone about your upcoming murder trial. They exchanged a final round of pleasantries, saying all the expected things; then Tamara hung up the phone with relief.

  Tamara crossed to the mantel and watched the flickering flames. Her throat was still tight, but it was different. She felt sadness, a yearning for the days that had been. But she felt comforted, as well. Mr. Foster remembered. Mr. Foster held the image of her parents in his mind, too. He understood. He mourned.

  Her grief was no longer hers alone. It was part of the community here in Sedona.

  Perhaps it had been a good thing to return.

  She turned away from the candle, trying to get back to the business at hand. Halfway across the Navajo print rug, however, she halted midstride. Mr. Foster had said Patty didn’t come home that night. Patty had told her that her father had come to her room. Why would Patty lie about a silly thing like that? Did she truly believe that by staying out all night in a stupid act of rebellion she’d caused the accident?

  The thought hit her all at once. Her expression fell in the dimly lit room. Her pain was genuine.

  “Oh, Patty, how could you?”

  • • •

  C.J. was no longer breathing. He inched his way along the side of the house with his gut sucked in and his bones pressed against the wooden siding. Wearing night goggles, he clearly saw the crisscrossing red beams that made each step an adventure. The senator’s security system had been a bit more than he bargained for.

  He stepped up over one beam very carefully, while ducking down to avoid another. A third passed by his navel so close it looked like it was drilling a second hole. Finally, he came to the French doors leading to the patio.

  With his fingers, he searched out the wires of the electronic system, then cut them with his Swiss Army knife. Life got a little easier. He smoothed packaging tape over a small pane next to the doorknob, then used the tape to fasten a small handle on the glass. With a sharp rap of his knife, the glass splintered as a fine web, held together only by the tape. He pulled out the section neatly and dropped it on the ground. Then he simply reached in, unlocked the latch and opened the door. Breaking and entering really wasn’t as difficult as people thought.

  The house was pitch-dark, the air stale. The thin beam of his flashlight illuminated a large king-size bed, sheet-swathed chair and covered bureau. The senator didn’t stay in this house often or for long.

  C.J. crept through the master bedroom into the hallway. He entered a foyer with a vaulted ceiling and a crystal chandelier. The curved legs of Queen Anne antiques peeked from beneath protective sheets. The floors were covered by thick Persian rugs. He saw the first signs of disturbances. Marks on the floor from the door being recently opened. A slim briefcase sitting next to the elegant brass coatrack.

  His footsteps slowed. The senator wasn’t supposed to be in town until tomorrow. He listened for sounds of other intruders, but the house was quiet. Whoever it was had come and gone. But there was no knowing when they might return. He would have to move faster.

  He crept to the back of the house and found the senator’s study. Large mahogany bookcases rose up like looming beasts. The air carried undercurrents of aging leather and bound parchment paper. The windows were heavily curtained.

  C.J. went straight to the large cherrywood desk that dominated the room. Its covering sheet had already been ripped off and dumped casually in a puddle on the floor. A huge computer filled most of the space. A fax machine rested next to it. All the modern toys for an office away from the office.

  C.J. went straight to the locked desk drawer. A steel lock. Good quality. The senator didn’t fool around. But apparently, neither did his guests: the lock bore recent marks of being opened.

  C.J. got busy. Fifteen minutes later, he opened the drawer to reveal several stacks of paper and a generous sum of cash.

  “For emergencies,” C.J. murmured, and started reading.

  Halfway through the pile, he stilled in the hushed silence.

  “Oh, Tamara,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  • • •

  She didn’t know what she was doing. She did it, anyway. First she unburied C.J.’s black sweatpants. Next she pulled on one of her own black silk turtlenecks. Then she called a cab. She had it drop her a quarter mile from Patty’s house.

  She should just go up to the front door, she kept thinking. Patty was her best friend. She could knock on the front door and demand answers to her questions.

  She approached the house like a thief, her stomach tight with nausea, her hand pressed against her belly.

  It couldn’t be Patty. It couldn’t be Patty.

  Don’t be such a fool.

  Lights poured from Patty’s window. A little after midnight, Tamara’s best friend obviously wasn’t sleeping.

  Tamara made it to the wrought-iron fence before drawing up short. What are you going to do, Tammy? What are you trying to prove? She could see her friend’s back patio, the porch lights reflecting off the soft waves of the kidney-shaped pool, the thick, waving branches of the mesquite tree. No one was moving at the back of the house. The bedroom window remained a hollowed-out shadow in the night.

  When they were little girls, Patty had kept a diary. Every night, she’d made an entry. Then she’d slip the diary beneath the mattress of her bed.

  Five minutes, in and out, that’s all it would take. She’d
find the diary and be out the door. Very, very simple. Patty wasn’t expecting anyone to break into her home, after all. At this point, she probably thought she was safe.

  The anger rose up in Tamara’s throat as bitter as bile. She eased open the gate and approached the back of the house. Pressing her ear against the sliding glass door, she could hear the low murmur of voices. The sliding glass door was too risky; it would dump her into the kitchen with a clear line of sight to the living room. She ducked low and headed to the left side, where she could see a French door leading to the master bedroom.

  She discovered the door unlocked, which didn’t surprise her. In Sedona, people had a tendency to leave back doors open. There just wasn’t much crime.

  Tamara eased inside.

  Patty’s room was large. Moonlight poured through a skylight, illuminating a modern wrought-iron bed with a desert-print comforter. Six pillows in designer cases fluffed up the back, while a huge painting of Indian figures, no doubt from Patty’s gallery, covered the wall behind the bed.

  Patty had done well for herself. So well. Tamara’s hands were shaking again. Rage, pure rage. She had no pain or understanding left in her heart.

  She stepped forward and plunged her hand beneath the mattress. She could hear the voices clearer now. Patty’s voice, nervous and high, a deeper voice, trying to soothe. Tamara dug for the diary. In and out. Just get the proof. Just read in black and white what your friend did to you.

  Abruptly, she heard footsteps. She ducked behind the bed, sucking her lips against her teeth. The sharp rap of heels on hardwood grew louder, then abruptly veered away. A door opened. She heard someone rummaging through a hall closet. Then the door shut and the footsteps faded back to the living room. Cautiously, Tamara looked up. The light beamed from the hallway.

  Sweat beaded her brow. Her breathing was ragged. Leave, Tamara, just leave. She couldn’t. She had to know. She had to find that damn diary.

  She didn’t care anymore about the risks. And at this point, what the hell did she have to lose?

  She plunged her hand back beneath the mattress and searched in earnest. Nothing, dammit, nothing.

  Her gaze fell on the nightstand. She eased out the lower drawer and pawed through it. Still nothing. Her gaze fell on the closet.

  Get out of the house, Tamara. It’s too risky. You’re being stupid.

  She told her common sense to shut up and attacked the closet. It was a walk-in, lined on both sides with conservative suits and elegant dresses. Shelves rimmed the top. She spotted several books and went after them.

  “Now, what do we have here?” The light snapped on.

  Her arm arched over head, Tamara froze. That wasn’t Patty’s voice. This was a distinctly male voice. She turned and found herself face-to-face with Senator George Brennan.

  • • •

  C.J. left the senator’s home via the front door, no longer worried about activating the security system. He grabbed his cell phone in the car and dialed his house. The answering machine picked up on the fourth ring.

  “Come on, Tamara. Wake up. Wake up and answer the phone.”

  He waited as second turned into second. Then his own answering machine cut him off.

  “Damn.” He dialed and let it ring again. Tamara wasn’t exactly a heavy sleeper. She’d pick it up this time.

  But she didn’t.

  And then he knew.

  “Damn, damn, damn.” He put his Mustang in gear and peeled out into the night. He was already dialing Sheriff Brody’s number.

  • • •

  “Wh-wh-what?” Patty sat on the edge of her fine leather sofa, her hand gripping a tumbler of Scotch for dear life as George dragged Tamara into the living room.

  “I told you I heard something in the bedroom.” The senator pushed Tamara forward. She stumbled slightly. “At least she dressed appropriately. Patty, get your gun. We’ll make it look like you shot her breaking and entering.”

  Tamara glanced immediately at her best friend. Patty seemed to have turned to stone. Her fine features were still, her green eyes blank. Just her red hair tumbled down her back with a hint of fire. Tamara remembered French-braiding that hair as a child.

  “Patty . . .” she whispered urgently.

  “Get your gun,” the senator said firmly.

  Patty’s hand began to shake.

  “Don’t!” Tamara countered. She leveled her gaze on her friend, trying to get her to meet her eyes through sheer force of will. “Patty, what are you doing?”

  “I . . . I . . .” Patty turned to the senator, her expression silently beseeching.

  “Gun,” he said simply. “One shot, that’s it. Then it will all be over.”

  “All be over? Killing me will not make it ‘over,’ Patty! You’ll still have to get up every morning and face your own reflection. You’ll still have to go to sleep every night, picturing your best friend’s body on the floor. You know that’s no kind of ‘over,’ don’t you? Haven’t you spent the last ten years living with the image of my parents’ crushed car?”

  “Shut up!” the senator growled. He backhanded her cleanly, and she fell to the ground.

  She could taste blood in her mouth. Her lips throbbed. Slowly, from her hands and knees on the plush Berber rug, Tamara looked up at Patty. “Tell me about it,” she whispered. “Tell me everything you did that night ten years ago, all the things you’ve wanted to admit, but you were too ashamed. I’m your best friend. I’ll understand.”

  “I’m not your best friend,” Patty said dully. “I don’t deserve a best friend.”

  The senator was moving behind them. He was opening a drawer. After a moment, Tamara realized he was trying to find Patty’s gun. She leaned forward.

  “You were with him that night, weren’t you? The senator must have told you how beautiful you were, how sophisticated. Did he tell you that he loved you?”

  “I’m not that dumb,” Patty said flatly. “We were having an affair. It was wild. Dangerous. It had nothing to do with love.”

  “Were you the one who rented the red sports car?”

  “I made the arrangements. We had a rendezvous spot, after the American Legion speech, so no one would see us.”

  “Were you the one driving?”

  “No!” Patty said sharply. For a moment, her eyes blazed to life. She jabbed her finger toward the senator. “He was the one at the wheel. He was the one not paying attention. Oh, my God, Tamara . . . We didn’t mean to. It was an accident. Such a horrible accident.”

  Behind them, the senator ripped open another drawer, his movements more frantic. Tamara began easing back on the rug, toward the front door. She kept her gaze on Patty, wondering at what point her friend would say something, at what point her friend would try to stop her.

  “The senator wouldn’t let you call for help,” Tamara filled in as she crept back, trying to keep Patty distracted. “He couldn’t afford to be caught with an eighteen-year-old girl. He said if you came forward, he’d deny everything. It would become all your fault.”

  “We took the car to Mexico. He knew people. A doctor. I don’t know what happened to the car. Someone in his office rented it. I just picked it up. He said he would take care of everything if I would just trust him, if I would just keep quiet. I didn’t . . . I didn’t know who we’d hit.” Patty’s voice broke.

  “Shut up. She might be wearing a recorder.” The senator crossed the room abruptly. Although an older man, he was still fit. He caught Tamara’s shoulder just as she reached the edge of the rug. He hauled her to her feet roughly, and shook her. “Going someplace, sweetie?” He hauled off and slapped her hard. Her head whipped back, pain exploding in her cheek and firing up her eye socket. She tasted blood again.

  Then abruptly, the senator dropped her like garbage on the rug, where she lay stunned, her eyes tearing up from the force of the blow. She couldn’t see. Her ears were ringing. Her mind was fuzzy.

  Pull yourself, together, Tamara. Focus, focus, focus.

  The sen
ator took the tumbler from Patty’s hand and held out the revolver as its replacement. “Take it.”

  Patty recoiled slightly, but she didn’t shake her head. She stared at the senator wordlessly.

  “Don’t, Patty! Don’t let him do this to you. That night was an accident. You were just a kid going through a rough time. The senator is the one to blame. He took advantage of you; he chose to cover things up instead of letting you come forward. He wouldn’t let you call for help.”

  “Don’t waste your breath,” the senator said. “Patty was hardly the victim, and she knows it. If she was such a good little girl, she never would’ve had her head rooting in my lap while I was trying to drive. Tell your friend about it, Patty. Tell her how you earned a reputation as the girl who could suck a golf ball through a garden hose.”

  The senator thrust the gun forward. His gaze on Patty was hard. “Just like Spider,” he said.

  Tamara was going to vomit. Far off, she heard Patty whisper, “I had to. He overheard me talking to my mom. . . .”

  “I know,” the senator said soothingly. “You did the right thing, Patty girl. You took care of everything, just like I asked. And I’ve taken care of you. The house, the car, the gallery. Who’s been there for you through everything, Patty? Who’s the one person who’s never left you?”

  “You.”

  “That’s right, Patty girl. That’s right. And now it’s almost done. You did well with Spider, switching the guns, taking him out with one shot. You had problems, though, with the brake lines and the scorpion and the bomb. Remember?”

  “I grew up with Tammy.” Patty closed her eyes, her throat working. “She said I was like her sister.”

  “She left you and never looked back, Patty. Nine and a half years it took for her to call you sister. Then she just wanted to use you to get at me. Don’t let her treat you like that. Don’t fall for that kind of manipulation. Take the gun. Pull the trigger. One shot, and it’s over. You’ll be able to sleep again at night. You’ll be safe. No one will ever know the truth.”