The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 2

by Nora Roberts

  Grandpop said there were trees that reached right up and brushed the sky in Washington. Olivia had been there to visit when she was a tiny baby and again when she’d been two, so she couldn’t remember very well. She thought Grandpop could find a sky-brushing tree for her so she could climb all the way up and call her mother. Mama would hear if she could just get closer to heaven.

  When she opened the door, she saw her grandmother crying, her aunt sitting beside her holding her hands. It made her stomach hurt to see Grandma cry, and it made her afraid when she saw her grandpop’s face. It was so tight and his eyes were too dark and mean. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but hard, as if he were trying to break the words instead of say them. It made Olivia cringe back to make herself small.

  “It doesn’t matter why he did it. He’s crazy, crazy with jealousy and drugs. What matters is he killed her, he took her away from us. He’ll pay for it, every day of his miserable life, he’ll pay. It’ll never be enough.”

  “We should’ve made her come home.” Tears continued to slide down Grandma’s cheeks. “When she told us she and Sam were having trouble, we should have told her to bring Livvy and come home for a while. To get her bearings.”

  “We didn’t know he’d gotten violent, didn’t know he’d hurt her.” Grandpa’s fists balled at his sides. “If I’d known, I’d have come down here and dealt with the son of a bitch myself.”

  “We can’t go back, Dad.” Jamie spoke wearily, for some of that responsibility was hers. She had known and said nothing. Julie had asked her to say nothing. “If we could, I know I’d be able to see a hundred different things I could do to change it, to stop it. But I can’t, and we have to face the now. The press—”

  “Fuck the press.”

  From her peep through the doorway, Olivia widened her eyes. Grandpop never said the bad word. She could only goggle as her aunt nodded calmly.

  “Well, Dad, before much longer they might look to fuck us. That’s the way of it. They’ll canonize Julie, or make her a whore. Or they’ll do both. We have to, for Livvy’s sake, take as much control as we can. There’ll be speculation and stories about her marriage and relationship with Sam—speculation about other men. Particularly Lucas Manning.”

  “Julie was not a cheat.” Grandma’s voice rose, snapped.

  “I know that, Mom. But that’s the kind of game that’s played.”

  “She’s dead,” Grandpop said flatly. “Julie’s dead. How much worse can it get?”

  Slowly, Olivia backed up from the door. She knew what dead meant. Flowers got dead when they were all brown and stiff and you had to throw them away. Tiffy’s old dog, Casey, had died and they’d dug a hole in the yard and put him inside, covered him up with dirt and grass.

  Dead meant you couldn’t come back.

  She kept moving away from the door while the breath got hot and thick in her chest, while flashes of blood and broken glass, of monsters and snapping scissors raced through her head.

  Then that breath burst out, burning over her heart as she started to run. And she started to scream.

  “Mama’s not dead. Mama’s not dead and in a hole in the yard. She’s coming back. She’s coming back soon.”

  She kept running, away from the shouts of her name, down the steps, down the hall. At the front door, she fought with the knob while tears flooded her cheeks. She had to get outside. She had to find a tree, a sky-brushing tree, so she could climb up and call Mama home.

  She fought it open and raced out. There were crowds of people, and she didn’t know where to go. Everyone was shouting, at once, like a big wave of sound crashing over her head, hurting her ears. She pressed her hands to them, crying, calling for her mother.

  A dozen cameras greedily captured the shot. Ate the moment and her grief and her fear.

  Someone shouted for them to leave her alone, she’s just a baby. But the reporters surged forward, caught in the frenzy. Sun shot off lenses, blinded her. She saw shadows and shapes, a blur of strange faces. Voices boomed out questions, commands.

  Look this way, Olivia! Over here.

  Did your father try to hurt you?

  Did you hear them fighting?

  Look at me, Olivia. Look at the camera.

  She froze like a fawn in the crosshairs, eyes dazed and wild. Then she was being scooped up from behind, her face pressed into the scent and shape of her aunt.

  “I want Mama, I want Mama.” She could only whisper it while Aunt Jamie held her tight.

  “She’s just a child.” Unable to stop herself, Jamie lifted her voice to a shout. “Damn you, God damn every one of you, she’s only a child.”

  She turned back toward the house and shook her head fiercely before her husband and her parents could step out. “No, stay inside. Don’t give them any more. Don’t give them another thing.”

  “I’ll take her upstairs.” Grandma’s eyes were dry now. Dry and cold and calm. “You’re right, Jamie. We deal with them now.” She pressed her lips to Olivia’s hair as she started upstairs. For her, Olivia was the now.

  This time Olivia slept, deep in the exhaustion of terror and misery, while her grandmother watched over her. That, Val decided, was her job now.

  In less soothing surroundings, Frank Brady thought of the child he’d seen that morning. He kept the image of her, those wide brown eyes holding trustingly to his, while he did his job.

  Sam Tanner was the now for Frank.

  Despite the hours in prison and the fact that his system was jumping for a hit, Sam’s looks had suffered little. It appeared as though he’d been prepped for the role of the afflicted lover, shocked and innocent and suffering, but still handsome enough to make the female portion of the audience long to save him.

  His hair was dark, thick and untidy. His eyes, a brilliant Viking blue, were shadowed. His love affair with cocaine had cost him some weight, but that only added a romantic, hollowed-out look to his face.

  His lips tended to tremble. His hands were never still.

  They’d taken away his bloody clothes and given him a washed-out gray shirt and slacks that bagged on him. They’d kept his belt and his shoelaces. He was on suicide watch, but had only begun to notice the lack of privacy. The full scope of his situation was still buried under the fog of shock and withdrawal from his drug of choice.

  The interrogation room had plain beige walls and the wide expanse of two-way glass. There was a single table, three chairs. His tended to wobble if he tried to lean back. A water fountain in the corner dispensed stingy triangular cups of lukewarm water, and the air was stuffy.

  Frank sat across from him, saying nothing. Tracy leaned against the wall and examined his own fingernails. The silence and overheated room had sweat sliding greasily down Sam’s back.

  “I don’t remember any more than I told you before.” Unable to stand the quiet, Sam let the words tumble out. He’d been so sure when they’d finished talking to him the first time, they’d let him go. Let him go so he could find out what they’d done with Julie, with Olivia.

  Oh God, Julie. Every time he thought of her, he saw blood, oceans of blood.

  Frank only nodded, his eyes patient. “Why don’t you tell me what you told me before? From the beginning.”

  “I keep telling you. I went home—”

  “You weren’t living there anymore, were you, Mr. Tanner?” This from Tracy, and just a little aggressive.

  “It’s still my home. The separation was just temporary, just until we worked some problems out.”

  “Right.” Tracy kept studying his fingernails. “That’s why your wife filed papers, got sole custody of the kid, why you had limited visitation and bought that palace on the beach.”

  “It was just formality.” Color washed in and out of Sam’s face. He was desperate for a hit, just one quick hit to clear his head, sharpen his focus. Why didn’t people understand how hard it was to think, for Christ’s sake. “And I bought the Malibu house as an investment.”

  When Tracy snorted, Frank lift
ed a hand. They’d been partners for six years and had their rhythm down as intimately as lovers. “Give the guy a chance to tell it, Tracy. You keep interrupting, you’ll throw him off. We’re just trying to get all the details, Mr. Tanner.”

  “Okay, okay. I went home.” He rubbed his hands on his thighs, hating the rough feel of the bagging trousers. He was used to good material, expertly cut. By God, he thought as he continued to pick and pluck at his pant legs, he’d earned the best.

  “Why did you go home?”

  “What?” He blinked, shook his head. “Why? I wanted to talk to Julie. I needed to see her. We just needed to straighten things out.”

  “Were you high, Mr. Tanner?” Frank asked it gently, almost friend to friend. “It’d be better if you were up-front about that kind of thing. Recreational use . . .” He let his shoulders lift and fall. “We’re not going to push you on that, we just need to know your state of mind.”

  He’d denied it before, denied it right along. It was the kind of thing that could ruin you with the public. People in the business, well, they understood how things were. But cocaine didn’t play well at the box office.

  But a little coke between friends? Hell, that wasn’t a big deal. Not a big fucking deal, as he was forever telling Julie when she nagged him. If she’d just . . .

  Julie, he thought again, and pressed his fingers to his eyes. Was she really dead?

  “Mr. Tanner?”

  “What?” The eyes that had women all over the world sighing blinked. They were bloodshot, bruised and blank.

  “Were you using when you went to see your wife?” Before he could deny it again, Frank leaned forward. “Before you answer, I’m going to tell you that we searched your car and found your stash. Now we’re not going to give you grief about possession. As long as you’re up-front.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He scrubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. “Anybody could have put that there. You could’ve planted it, for all I know.”

  “You saying we planted evidence?” Tracy moved fast, a lightning strike of movement. He had Sam by the collar and half out of the chair. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Easy, take it easy. Come on now.” Frank lifted both hands. “Mr. Tanner’s just confused. He’s upset. You didn’t mean to say we’d planted drugs in your car, did you?”

  “No, I—”

  “Because that’s serious business, Mr. Tanner. A very serious accusation. It won’t look good for you, especially since we have a number of people who’ll testify you like a little nose candy now and then. Just a social thing,” Frank continued as Tracy let out a snort of disgust and went back to leaning on the wall. “We don’t have to make a big deal out of that. Unless you do. Unless you try saying we planted that coke when we know it was yours. When I can look at you right now and see you could use a little just to smooth the edges a bit.”

  Face earnest, Frank leaned forward. “You’re in a hell of a fix here, Sam. A hell of a fix. I admire your work, I’m a big fan. I’d like to cut you a break, but you’re not helping me or yourself by lying about the drugs. Just makes it worse.”

  Sam worried his wedding ring, turning it around and around on his finger. “Look, maybe I had a couple of hits, but I was in control. I was in control.” He was desperate to believe it. “I’m not an addict or anything, I just took a couple of hits to clear my head before I went home.”

  “To talk to your wife,” Frank prompted. “To straighten things out.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I needed to make her understand we should get back together, get rid of the lawyers and fix things. I missed her and Livvy. I wanted our life back. Goddamn it, I just wanted our life back.”

  “I don’t blame you for that. Beautiful wife and daughter. A man would be crazy to give it all up easy. You wanted to straighten out your troubles, so you went over there, and talked to her.”

  “That’s right, I—no, I went over and I found her. I found her. Oh, Jesus Christ.” He closed his eyes then, covered his face. “Oh God, Julie. There was blood, blood everywhere, broken glass, the lamp I bought her for her birthday. She was lying there in the blood and the glass. I tried to pick her up. The scissors were in her back. I pulled them out.”

  Hadn’t he? He thought he’d pulled them out, but couldn’t quite remember. They’d been in his hand, hot and slick with blood.

  “I saw Livvy, standing there. She started running away.”

  “You went after her,” Frank said quietly.

  “I think—I must have. I think I went a little crazy. Trying to find her, trying to find who’d done that to Julie. I don’t remember. I called the police.” He looked back at Frank. “I called the police as soon as I could.”

  “How long?” Tracy pushed away from the wall, stuck his face close to Sam’s. “How long did you go through the house looking for that little girl, with scissors in your hand, before you broke down and called the cops?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure. A few minutes, maybe. Ten, fifteen.”

  “Lying bastard!”

  “Tracy—”

  “He’s a fucking lying bastard, Frank. He’d’ve found that kid, she’d be in the morgue next to her mother.”

  “No. No.” Horror spiked in his voice. “I’d never hurt Livvy.”

  “That’s not what your wife thought, is it, Tanner?” Tracy jabbed a finger into Sam’s chest. “She put it in writing that she was afraid for you to be alone with the kid. You’re a cokehead, and a sorry son of a bitch, and I’ll tell you just how it went down. You thought about her in that big house, locking you out, keeping you away from her and your kid because she couldn’t stand the sight of you. Maybe you figure she’s spreading her legs for another man. Woman who looks like that, there’s going to be other men. And you got yourself all coked up and drove over there to show her who was boss.”

  “No, I was just going to talk to her.”

  “But she didn’t want to talk to you, did she, Tanner? She told you to get out, didn’t she? Told you to go to hell. Maybe you knocked her around a little first, like you did the other time.”

  “It was an accident. I never meant to hurt her. We were arguing.”

  “So you picked up the scissors.”

  “No.” He tried to draw back, tried to clear the images blurring in his head. “We were in Livvy’s room. Julie wouldn’t have scissors in Livvy’s room.”

  “You were downstairs and you saw them on the table, sitting there, shiny, sharp. You grabbed them and you cut her to pieces because she was done with you. If you couldn’t have her, no one was going to have her. That’s what you thought, isn’t it, Tanner? The bitch deserved to die.”

  “No, no, no, I couldn’t have done that. I couldn’t have.” But he remembered the feel of the scissors in his hands, the way his fingers had wrapped around them, the way blood had dripped down the blade. “I loved her. I loved her.”

  “You didn’t mean to do it, did you, Sam?” Frank picked up the ball, sliding back into the seat, his voice gentle, his eyes level. “I know how it is. Sometimes you love a woman so much it makes you crazy. When they don’t listen, don’t hear what you’re saying, don’t understand what you need, you have to find a way to make them. That’s all it was, wasn’t it? You were trying to find a way to make her listen, and she wouldn’t. You lost your temper. The drugs, they played a part in that. You just didn’t have control of yourself. You argued, and the scissors were just there. Maybe she came at you. Then it just happened, before you could stop it. Like the other time when you didn’t mean to hurt her. It was a kind of accident.”

  “I don’t know.” Tears were starting to swim in his eyes. “I had the scissors, but it was after. It had to be after. I pulled them out of her.”

  “Livvy saw you.”

  Sam’s face went blank as he stared at Frank. “What?”

  “She saw you. She heard you, Sam. That’s why she came downstairs. Your four-year-old daughter’s a witness. The murder weapon ha
s your prints all over it. Your bloody footprints are all over the house. In the living room, the hall, going up the stairs. There are bloody fingerprints on the doorjamb of your little girl’s bedroom. They’re yours. There was no one else there, Sam, no burglar like you tried to tell us yesterday. No intruder. There was no sign of a break-in, nothing was stolen, your wife wasn’t raped. There were three people in the house that night. Julie, Livvy and you.”

  “There had to be someone else.”

  “No, Sam. No one else.”

  “My God, my God, my God.” Shaking, he laid his head on the table and sobbed like a child.

  When he had finished sobbing, he confessed.

  Frank read the signed statement for the third time, got up, walked around the tiny coffee room and settled for the nasty dregs in the pot. With the cup half full of what even the desperate would call sludge, he sat at the table and read the confession again.

  When his partner came in, Frank spoke without looking up. “This thing’s got holes, Tracy. It’s got holes you could drive that old Caddy you love so much through without scraping the paint.”

  “I know it.” Disgusted, Tracy set a fresh pot on to brew, then went to the scarred refrigerator to steal someone’s nicely ripened Bartlett pear. He bit in, grunted with satisfaction, then sat. “But the guy’s whacked, Frank. Jonesing, jittery. And he was flying that night. He’s never going to remember it step-by-step.”

  He swiped at pear juice dribbling down his chin. “We know he did it. We got the physical evidence, motive, opportunity. We place him at the scene. Hell, we got a witness. Now we got a confession. We did our job, Frank.”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t sit right in the gut. Not all the way right. See here where he says he broke the music box, the kid’s Disney music box. There was no music box. He’s getting the two nights confused, blending them into one.”