by Nancy Skopin
Bill and I walked out to the parking lot and watched the guys pack up their van and drive away.
“So what are your plans for the day?” he asked.
“I’m going to the gym, and then I’m going to St. Theresa’s.”
“Are you okay?”
“No. I love this car.”
“Someone’s pretty pissed off at you.”
“You think?”
“Please be careful, Nikki.”
He brushed a kiss across my lips, and for a moment I forgot all about the horror of the last week.
“I’ll try,” I sighed.
While I was on the treadmill I was sure the other people working out were whispering behind my back. They must have seen the news reports about my arrest, and some of them had seen my damaged Bimmer in the parking lot.
I rushed my workout and avoided talking to anyone, nor did anyone approach me. I showered hastily and got the hell out of there.
I was developing a new respect for celebrities. Being a public figure is nerve-racking.
I needed groceries, so I drove to Whole Foods and left my sunglasses on inside the store, hoping they would help conceal my identity. I stocked up on the basics: dog biscuits, lettuce, tomatoes, cottage cheese, tuna, salad dressing, avocados, mineral water, and Guinness Stout. I loaded my purchases in the trunk of the 2002 and drove back to the marina.
After lugging my groceries down to the boat and unpacking them, I noticed my answering machine was blinking. I pressed the play button. The machine informed me that I had one new message and stated the time of the call.
“Nikki, it’s me,” said Bill’s voice. “I’m at the office. Call me.”
I checked my watch. I’d just missed him. I returned his call and caught him at his desk.
“I just called you,” he said.
“I know, you idiot. I’m calling you back. What did you find out?”
“Well, I took your suggestion, and the Sheriff’s Department’s hair and fiber people turned up two short red hairs in the cottage, but no prints. Also, ballistics says the bullet that killed Maggie most likely came from your gun.”
Short red hairs?
“What was that? Did you say most likely came from my gun? What does that mean?”
“It means the bullet went right through her. They found a thirty-eight special slug in the pool when they drained it. Nothing else turned up, so they say it’s almost certain the bullet that killed her came from your Ruger.”
“Okay. That’s what I thought,” I mumbled.
“Hey, Nikki. You and Elizabeth weren’t fooling around at the cottage yesterday were you?”
“What? Why?”
“Someone broke in. The glass panel next to the front door was broken.”
“Have you ever known me to break glass when I can pick a lock?”
“I guess not. I was just thinking, you know, Elizabeth is a red-head.”
“You said short red hairs. How short?”
“I haven’t seen them, but the report says they were about an inch long.”
Not Elizabeth, I thought, but maybe Jack. He’d been in there with me yesterday.
“Thanks, Bill. I’ve got Guinness if you want to come by later.”
“You know it’s against the law to bribe a public official?”
After we hung up I ate some cottage cheese and then changed into jeans and a button-down shirt. Formal wear.
I drove to the car wash, just in case my stalker had used water soluble paint. No such luck. A quick stop at an auto parts store netted me a paint protection hood kit that was tinted black. It was like a second skin that fit over the hood of the car. You could still see the graffiti through the translucent shield, but it was harder to read.
I found St. Theresa’s right where Google Maps said it would be. The structure was imposing, or maybe intimidating is a better word, probably because of the towering cathedral with which it shared the grounds.
Organized religion scares the crap out of me, and because of my mom’s excommunication and the resultant emotional trauma she suffered, Catholicism is at the top of my list of religions to be feared and avoided.
I parked in the farthest corner of the lot. Even though the hood cover hid the worst of the graffiti, I was reluctant to park where someone might see it. When I located the administration office, I took a deep breath before opening the door.
The nun behind the counter looked at me over a pair of half-glasses, her expression neutral.
“May I help you?” she asked.
She was in her mid-fifties with light brown hair turning to white. She wore a dark pantsuit. Her features were delicate and her face was round, maybe German or Danish, and there was a fierce intelligence in her blue eyes.
“I hope so,” I said, taking out my PI license. I was too nervous to make up a story, so I told her a partial truth. “I’m trying to locate a man named Patrick James Sullivan. He went to school here with his sister, Margaret Kathleen Sullivan. I’m not sure what year he graduated, but I was hoping you would have some record of him, maybe an old yearbook photo.”
After she’d scrutinized it, I put my license away and handed her one of my cards.
She studied my face for a long moment. “Do you have a range of years I can use as a starting point?”
“Well, Margaret would have graduated—just a minute.” I took out my phone and tapped on the calculator app. Maggie had looked like she was in her thirties; she’d probably graduated at seventeen or eighteen. I did the math and gave her a four-year range.
She made a quick note on a scratch pad and went into another room. She was back in eleven minutes. I timed her. She carried a bundle of file folders and two yearbooks.
“We had two Margaret Kathleen Sullivans during those years,” she said.
She plunked down the yearbooks and started going through one of them. I grabbed the other, flipped to the back and began scanning the senior class photos. They were alphabetized, so it was easy to find Maggie. She’d stood out even then. A very intense-looking young woman, challenging and seducing the photographer at the same time.
“Here,” I said, putting my finger on the photo. “This is Margaret.”
The nun glanced at the picture, then chose one of the overstuffed file folders and removed a rubber band. She started leafing through the forms until she located the one she wanted.
“Patrick James Sullivan, only sibling.” She looked up at me and waited a moment, as though she expected me to either confirm or deny this information.
“Yes,” I said, “that’s correct.”
She went into the back room, returning with two additional yearbooks. Again she took one and I opened the other. I found three Patrick Sullivans in mine, but the middle names were wrong.
The sister had better luck. “Is this who you’re looking for?” she asked, turning the open book so I could see it, her index finger resting on the page above the picture of a red-haired boy. My heart skipped a beat as I stared at the photograph. There was no mistaking those cat’s eyes. Patrick James Sullivan was my client, Jack McGuire.
Chapter 35
The sister was kind enough to photocopy the yearbook page with Jack’s picture for me. As she handed it to me she said, “Good luck, young lady. For my money, I think you’re innocent.”
She had known who I was all along.
All I could think to say was, “Thank you.”
Tears burned the backs of my eyes as I stumbled out the door. Anyone believing in my innocence was a welcome relief right now, and this woman had spent only about ten minutes in my presence. I was touched by her kindness; however, by the time I got to the car my whole body was vibrating with anger.
That son-of-a-bitch had set me up for a measly six million dollars! There was
no other possible explanation. Who else could have known I was having dinner with Maggie that night? Who else could have slipped into the yard unseen, snatched up the knife, and slipped away again like a thief. Like a thief!
I broke the speed limit getting back to the office in spite of Bill’s plea that I avoid breaking the law. I couldn’t help myself. I’d left Jack’s pager number at the office. I unlocked the door and felt my gut clench all over again at the damage that had been done to my space. I left the door open behind me, found Jack’s file still on the desk, and located his pager number. I dialed, entered my office phone number, pressed the pound key, and slammed the receiver down.
I lit a cigarette and started pacing around the debris. I was wearing a crater in the carpet by the time Jack returned my call thirteen minutes later.
“Hunter Investigations,” I said, in my professional voice.
“It’s Jack. You called?”
“I did. Can we get together? I want to give you my final report and we need to settle up.” I tried not to let the anger creep into my voice, and it wasn’t easy.
“I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“Great.”
I righted my ruined desk chair and pushed some of the stuffing back inside so I could sit down. I lifted my computer and gently set it on the desk, placing the monitor behind it. I turned on the computer and spent some time updating my notes on Jack’s case and compiling my remaining expenses. I printed the report and the invoice, and made an extra copy of the whole file for Bill.
Jack arrived at 12:35. I sat watching the door so he couldn’t sneak up on me this time. He stepped into the office carrying a large Crate & Barrel shopping bag. He surveyed the damage and stepped over the scattered files, moving toward my desk.
“Hello, Jack,” I said. “Have a seat.”
“Elizabeth told me about your car,” he said, sitting down opposite me, “and your coffee pot.” He pulled a new Krups combination espresso-coffee maker out of the shopping bag and set it on the desk. “Of course I’ll pay for any damage. You should take your car to a BMW dealership to be sure they match the original color.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks,” I said, nodding toward the coffee maker. I was moved by the gesture, and that pissed me off even more. I didn’t want to be moved. This guy had set me up. I wanted to be angry.
I handed Jack the completed report, which came to thirty-one pages, on top of which I had placed the invoice, on top of which I had placed the photocopy of the yearbook page displaying his picture. I’d made a few extra copies of that as well.
Jack took off his sunglasses and looked down at his childhood photo. His cheeks reddened slightly and I saw his jaw clench, but he said nothing. He set the stack of papers on my desk and looked at me. I looked back. We did that for about a minute. Then Jack blinked and looked down at the picture again.
“What happens now?” he asked.
I got up and locked the office door. Elizabeth had all my guns, but I still had my defense spray, and it didn’t appear that Jack was armed.
“I thought you might like to tell me your story before I call the police.”
I removed the front door key from the ring and placed it in my lap drawer, which I locked. Jack watched me go through this little ritual without objecting. He looked guilty as hell.
“I don’t know where to begin,” he said.
“Let’s start with your name. How’d you come up with Jack McGuire?”
“That’s my name now. I changed it when I was twenty-one, when my grandfather died. It was his name. I went to live with my mother’s parents in Ireland after Mom and Dad were killed. I just moved back to the states a few years ago.”
“You don’t have much of an accent.”
“I didn’t move to Ireland until I was eleven.”
“Why did you choose me, Jack? And don’t try to tell me that it was a coincidence we met in that bar.”
“I’d read about you in the paper. That murder case you solved. The picture didn’t do you justice, by the way.”
Seriously?
“We are way past the point where flattery might have made a difference, Jack.”
He shifted in his chair. “That’s why I chose you,” he continued, “because you had experience dealing with dangerous criminals. Most PIs do a lot of surveillance, but never handle anything risky.”
“So you assumed that when the time came I‘d be capable of killing your sister?”
He winced. “I never thought it would come to that,” he said.
“Oh, please. That’s exactly what you hoped would happen. Why else would you have been there that night? Why else would you have taken the knife?”
Jack froze, his eyes locked on mine. “Is that what you think?” He almost sounded hurt. “I didn’t take that knife, Nikki. And I hired you to stop Maggie, not to kill her. Remember, I tried to talk you out of that harebrained scheme of yours. She was my sister and I loved her, but she was always secretive. Maggie was ten when I was born, so we were never close. Our parents didn’t think they could have any more children after Maggie. I was a surprise.
“When they were killed, Maggie shipped me off to Ireland to live with our grandparents, and after they both passed away I moved back and persuaded her to let me stay in the carriage house. I hoped we would become friends. Anyway, I could tell something wasn’t right with her, and lately it seemed to be getting worse, so when she was out of town on business I decided to search her house. Then I found those videotapes, and I didn’t know what else to do.”
It sounded plausible and, in spite of myself, I realized I wanted to believe him.
“I’m being accused of murder and you’re walking away with over six million dollars,” I said, reaching for my cigarettes.
“I don’t want the money,” Jack said. “God knows I don’t need it.”
“Why did your parents leave everything to Maggie?”
“They wrote the will before I was born,” he said, “and never bothered to change it. I guess they thought they had all the time in the world.”
“Just how much money do you have?”
I couldn’t help asking. I didn’t know anyone who would turn down six million or even six thousand dollars.
“I’m very good at what I do,” he said.
“Which is?” I asked. “Just for the record.”
“Tell me you’re not taping this.”
“I didn’t think of it, but that’s a good idea. You mind waiting while I get out my recorder?”
I normally keep a mini-cassette recorder in my purse, because the sound quality is superior to the recording app on my phone, but I hadn’t transferred it to my new handbag. I dug around in the purse just to make him squirm, then feigned surprise. “Guess I left it on the boat.”
He sat perfectly still, but I could sense the energy surging through his well-toned body.
“Tell me what you do for a living, Jack. I want to hear you say it.”
After a moment he softly said, “I’m a thief, Nikki. A burglar. I only take cash and securities and only from people who can afford the loss.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“Can we get back to the real issue here?” He stood up and put his hands on my blotter, leaning over my desk, his face close to mine. “I did not take that knife.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“I can’t think of a single reason why you should,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t tell you Maggie was my sister because I thought you would refuse to take the case.”
“Well, you were right about that.”
“I don’t know what else I can say to convince you. I was shocked when I found those tapes. I’d only intended to take a look around to see if I could find any clues about what was going on with her,
but Maggie was obsessive about order. If a speck of dust had been disturbed on the banister she would have noticed. So I had to make it look like a break-in.
“I cut a hole in the sliding glass door, and I took some cash and some bonds to make it look good, I decided to check out the videotapes because she kept them locked up. I thought they might be porn. I had no idea.” He sighed and sank back into the chair. “I had to stop her, but I couldn’t go to the police, for obvious reasons. Then I remembered that article about you in the newspaper.”
He took out his Turkish Ovals and lit one, inhaled deeply and leaned back. He looked exhausted, as though thinking about Maggie and what she’d become had drained him completely.
“Suppose I believe you, just for the sake of argument. Who do you think could have taken the knife?”
“I assumed it was one of the cops at the crime scene. Maybe someone who collects macabre souvenirs.”
“When did you move out of the cottage?”
“After I found the tapes. Maggie was unpredictable. I had no idea what she would do if she realized I’d been in her house.”
“Why did you leave an open bottle of bleach in the cottage bathroom?”
The shadow of a smile moved quickly across his face and then disappeared.
“The first time we met you commented on my cologne. I was afraid you’d recognize it, so I splashed some bleach around and left the bottle open.”
The phone rang. It was Bill. He started telling me what he’d found out about the personnel at the crime scene. I listened for a moment, then unlocked my lap drawer and tossed Jack the key. He unlocked the office door and then walked back to the desk, set the key on the blotter, and picked up the invoice. He pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket and peeled off several hundred-dollar bills, nodded to me, and left. When he was out of sight I picked up the pile of money and counted it. He’d left me five thousand dollars. The invoice was only for thirty-three hundred. I wondered what he thought he was buying.
