The Only Suspect

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “Okay. How do I get that?”

  “I can fax you a form.”

  I gave him the office fax number. “And then can you wire the money to my local account?”

  “Technically it ought to go into a separate account. These are trust funds, and they shouldn’t be comingled with your personal funds.” He paused. “Though we could certainly do that, if you wish.”

  “For now, that would be easiest.”

  “Once you return the paperwork to me, I’ll put in a sell order. You ought to have the funds at your disposal by early next week.”

  “Next week?” I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. “I was hoping to have them by tomorrow.”

  It was the closest I’d come to hearing Mr. Garweather laugh. “I’m afraid that is impossible.”

  We finished going over the particulars—I’d had enough of Garweather and wanted the money elsewhere no matter what—then I hung up and stared at the wall. I could feel the prick of tears in my eyes.

  Dad would help if he could, but he had little to spare. Chase didn’t have a nickel to his name, and Ira lived so far beyond his means he made the federal government look frugal. Lisa’s parents were the only people I knew with money, and asking them was out of the question.

  What was I going to do?

  I’d failed to protect Lisa, and now I was going to fail Maureen.

  The bitter taste of despair made me ill.

  I dropped by Ira’s office to tell him I was leaving for the day.

  “Any news?” he asked. It was the same question he’d asked me first thing that morning.

  “Afraid not,” I said. Ira had a chart open on his desk, and Debbie had just ushered another patient into one of the examining rooms. He was taking on an extra load because of me, and that made me feel worse. “I’m heading home. I really appreciate your covering for me.”

  Ira shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”

  I knew he was busy and didn’t have time for socializing, but there was a coolness to his manner that hadn’t been there before. Probably he did mind that my problems were causing problems for him. But I sensed that he was also trying to distance himself from me. Was it any wonder the cops thought I might be guilty when my oldest friend harbored doubts?

  I drove home, wondering how it would feel if our roles were reversed. Would I step in for Ira? Sure, but on some level I’d probably also resent it. Would I stand up for him? Certainly in public, unless I had proof of his wrongdoing. But privately? You can’t banish doubts by telling yourself you’re going to ignore them.

  And what would Ira do in my place? Despite having the trappings of a more elegant lifestyle, Ira’s financial situation was as bleak as mine. Worse, in fact, thanks to a vindictive ex-wife and a weakness for high-stakes poker. But Ira would never find himself in my position. He had no one in his life to be kidnapped, nothing he cared passionately about.

  I was beginning to envy that.

  CHAPTER 14

  Frank Donahue sipped the glass of sherry Sylvia Patterson had handed him. It was probably excellent sherry—he couldn’t imagine the Pattersons serving anything that wasn’t top of the line—but Frank wasn’t big on sherry. He’d have preferred scotch or a beer, or even a cup of coffee, but four o’ clock was apparently too early for a real drink and too late in the day for coffee. He’d remembered this from before, the Pattersons’ strict adherence to formality. It always made him a bit uncomfortable.

  He set the etched crystal glass on the coaster in front of him and waited for Sylvia to take a seat. She was in her early sixties, a tiny, birdlike woman with carefully coiffed hair and several large diamond rings on her fingers.

  Hal Patterson, on the other hand, was a large man, six feet at least, with broad shoulders and substantial girth around the middle.

  “How have you been?” Hal asked, settling himself into an oversized leather armchair.

  “I can’t complain,” Frank replied. Although, of course, he did all the time. Millie had hoped that without the pressure of work, he’d relax a bit, but Frank suspected he was genetically programmed for discontent. “How about you?”

  Hal shrugged. “It’s been hard. Lisa would have been thirty-seven next month. The ache never goes away.”

  “Not only did Sam murder our daughter,” Sylvia added, “he’s keeping our granddaughter from us. We get a photograph now and then, but that’s about it. She’s grown up so much, and we’ve missed it all.”

  “Meanwhile he’s walking around free as a bird, poisoning our Molly against us.” Hal was bitter, understandably so, but Frank sometimes thought if he’d handled things differently he might still have had a relationship with the kid. “We’ve invited her for the summer,” Hal added, “and Sam hasn’t even had the courtesy to respond.”

  “She looks so much like Lisa did at that age,” Sylvia said wistfully.

  Hal leaned forward, addressing Frank. “Do you have news? Is that why you wanted to see us?”

  “Nothing about your daughter, I’m afraid.” Frank had intended to pass the information along in a quick phone call, but Hal had insisted he come by in person. And truth be told, Frank didn’t mind. The Russell murder had been the last big case he’d handled, and staying connected with those involved made him feel like he still had something to contribute.

  “I did get a call from a detective out in California, however. Sam’s remarried, did you know that?”

  Sylvia sucked in her breath. “We’d heard. He gets to go on with his life like the past never happened, while we ... we are left with nothing.”

  “That’s what you came to tell us?” Hal asked. “That he’s remarried?”

  “And that his wife is missing.”

  Hal’s expression morphed from confusion to understanding. “Just like with Lisa. My God, the man’s a monster.”

  Sylvia set her sherry on the table. “Poor Molly.” She turned to her husband. “It can’t be good for her living in a home like that. We’ve got to protect our granddaughter.”

  “It’s not clear yet that he had anything to do with her disappearance,” Frank pointed out. “Or that there’s even foul play involved.”

  “But the police contacted you. They must think—”

  “I’m sure it’s crossed their minds. I thought you’d want to know.”

  “You bet we do,” Hal said emphatically. “Sam got away with murder once. He can’t get away with it again. You’ll do what you can to see that doesn’t happen, won’t you?”

  “It’s not my case. Not even my jurisdiction.”

  “But you might be able to help. We’ll hire you, like we did before. I’d like you to take another look at the evidence against Sam anyway. There are new techniques in forensics I’ve read about. Maybe we’ll get him yet.”

  “I asked the detective from California to keep me in the loop,” Frank said. “As for the other, let me think about it. A case as old as this one—”

  “It’s only been seven years,” Sylvia said, setting her empty sherry glass on the side table. “I’ve read about cold cases, isn’t that what they’re called? Cases that were solved years after the crime.”

  “Solved, yes. Usually through a DNA match. That’s different than bringing the same suspect to trial a second time.”

  “But if you found new evidence ...”

  It wasn’t going to happen. New evidence didn’t suddenly spring to life seven years after the fact. Still, Frank could feel his blood pumping. It was a good feeling.

  “I’ll give it serious thought,” he promised.

  “And let’s make sure no one in California forgets what he did to Lisa.”

  CHAPTER 15

  In the end, I told Dad about the call. I didn’t have a choice. He may not have had much money, but he had collateral and a solid credit rating. If I was going to get the ransom money in time, I needed his help. But asking for it was one of the hardest things I’d ever done.

  He was mowing the lawn when I pulled up in front of the house. He idled
the engine as I walked toward him. The newly cut grass smelled sweet and fresh.

  “You got a minute?” I asked.

  “Sure.” He turned the mower off and gave me his full attention. That’s the way he was. For as long as I could remember, he’d been there whenever I needed him.

  “I have to ask a favor, Dad. A really big one.”

  “What is it?”

  I cleared my throat. “Money.”

  “Sure, if things are tight—”

  I shook my head. “It’s not that easy.” I told him about the phone call and the ransom demand, and my attempts to raise the money myself. “I can’t get my hands on Molly’s trust money until after the deadline.”

  “Oh, Sam.” His tone was anguished. He leaned against the mower. “I hate to see you take Molly’s money.”

  “What else am I going to do?”

  “No, I’m not criticizing. I understand.” He rubbed his palms on his pant legs. “What about calling the cops?”

  I shook my head. “If something goes wrong, I might never get Maureen back.”

  “That’s the important thing, keeping her safe.”

  “I need the money tomorrow night though. I hate putting you on the spot like this. I wouldn’t do it except there’s no other way.”

  He nodded then hugged me. “Of course, Sam. I’ll do whatever I can.”

  I felt myself choke up. I was grateful beyond words. “I’ll repay it all, with interest.”

  He waved his hand. “Don’t worry about interest. I’m glad I can help. I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to pull together though.”

  “Dad, you’re the greatest. I feel awful asking you this, but I’m so—”

  He squeezed my shoulder. “Try not to worry, Son. We’ll get her home.”

  After leaving Dad’s, I picked Molly up at school, and we stopped for ice cream. I suggested it, though I didn’t know why. I had no appetite at all, much less interest in anything sweet. Molly didn’t greet the suggestion with her typical enthusiasm either. Still, it was a mark of everyday life, and I think we both needed that.

  We got cones—cookies and cream for Molly, orange sherbet for me—and sat on the bench in front of the store to eat them. Molly was still wearing the heart-shaped locket Maureen had given her.

  “Does it open?” I asked.

  She lifted it from her neck and showed me. “There’s room for two photos, but it was empty.”

  “Whose pictures are you going to put there?”

  “I guess one should be Maureen’s.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “But I think I won’t put anything there for now.”

  “That’s fine.” I knew Molly was struggling with ambivalent feelings about Maureen. She was frightened that Maureen was missing and felt it might somehow be her fault. But she’d never really warmed to Maureen. I could imagine that on some level Molly was glad to have her out of the picture, and that only made Molly feel worse.

  “She had a nickname when she was little,” Molly told me several licks later.

  “What was it?”

  “Elf.”

  The Maureen I knew was a force to be reckoned with. More titan than elf. “How did she get the nickname?”

  Molly shook her head. “She didn’t tell me about it. It’s what it says on her locket. Do you think that’s what her parents called her?”

  “Probably.”

  “I like Sweetpea better.”

  That was my nickname for Molly, though I’d gotten enough grief over using it in front of her friends that I’d tried to break the habit. I was surprised to hear she liked it.

  “Why don’t we know them?” she asked. “Are they dead?”

  “Her parents? I’m not sure. She doesn’t get along with them though. She hasn’t talked to them in a long time.” I’d given fleeting thought to trying to track them down for help with the ransom money, but in light of Maureen’s antipathy towards them, I’d quickly discarded the idea as a fantasy at best.

  “Like us and Mom’s parents.”

  “You talked to them last Christmas,” I pointed out. From what I heard of Molly’s end of the conversation, it had been filled with awkward silences.

  “But we don’t talk, talk. I hardly know them.”

  Someday I would have to give Molly a full account of my relationship with my former in-laws, but not now.

  “I bet they have pictures of Mom when she was my age,” Molly added.

  I nodded. “I’m sure they do.”

  “I wish I’d known her.”

  “You did know her. Don’t you remember your stuffed dog, Whoof, and how silly Mom was when she tried to feed him?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not what I mean.” Molly paused. “I’d like to visit her grave someday.”

  We had visited it, Molly and I, the day we left Boston. I’d asked for Lisa’s blessing and felt she’d given it. But it was a cold, bleak November day, and I remembered feeling that I was betraying Lisa by moving west and abandoning her. I’d almost decided to stay.

  “We’ll do that,” I told Molly. “You finished?”

  She’d more or less stopped licking her cone, and the ice cream had begun to melt down the sides.

  “I’m not really hungry,” Molly said.

  “Me neither.” We tossed what was left of our cones in the trash. I handed Molly a clean napkin to wipe her sticky hands. “There you go, Sweetpea.”

  She wrinkled her nose at me.

  “I love you,” I told her.

  She hugged my waist. “I love you too. You’re the best dad in the whole world.”

  The same thing I thought about my own father. How sad that Maureen had missed that in her own family.

  The light was on in the kitchen when we got home. I was pretty sure I’d turned it off before we left that morning. I was careful about that. It was a bone of contention between me and Maureen, who seemed incapable of flipping off a light switch.

  For an instant, I thought maybe she’d returned home. “Maureen?”

  The house was still.

  “She’s here?” Molly asked hopefully.

  I shook my head. “No, it’s just that for a minute there I thought ... she might be.”

  It didn’t look like anyone was inside, but still ... Once you get an idea like that in your head, it’s hard to put it to rest.

  “Stay here,” I told Molly. “I want to check the house. If you hear a noise, run next door.”

  “I want to come with you.”

  I shook my head. “I need you to stay by the door.”

  I glanced around the living room and dining room. They seemed untouched. Then I headed up the stairs toward the bedrooms. From the top landing, I caught a flash of movement below, heard heavy steps running toward the kitchen. My heart leapt to my throat.

  I screamed, “Run, Molly.” And sprinted back down toward the kitchen.

  He was twenty feet in front of me. By the time I got there, he had Molly in his grip and was holding a knife at her throat.

  Fear surged through me. I was frantic, but I didn’t dare come any closer.

  “Let her go!” I yelled.

  He wasn’t a tall man, but he was powerfully built. His face was hidden by a ski mask. Molly’s was white as a sheet and wore a look of pure terror.

  “Daddy!”

  The intruder pressed the knife against Molly’s flesh. “You keep your trap shut, kid.”

  “If you hurt her, I swear to God I’ll—”

  He cut me off. “I’m a friend of Eric’s,” he said.

  I had no idea what he was talking about. “Please, whatever you want, it can’t involve her.”

  “You know what I want.”

  “I don’t—”

  “I’ll be watching you.” He held the point of the knife under Molly’s chin. “You don’t want to follow Eric,” the man said. “You or your kid.”

  “Who’s Eric?”

  Molly swung an arm up, reaching for the intruder’s face, and missed. He grabbed the
arm and yanked it hard behind her back. She yelped in pain. He shoved her hard in my direction, and she collapsed against me.

  The man was out the door in a flash. I didn’t even look to see which way he went. My focus was on Molly, who was sobbing hysterically.

  I held her to me while I called the cops with shaking hands.

  CHAPTER 16

  Officer Dickey looked barely old enough to be a cop, but he’d been quick to respond. He arrived at the house no more than five minutes after I called 911. As I explained what had happened, he went through the house, looking for the intruder’s point of entry.

  “What did he look like?” Dickey asked me, pulling a notebook from his shirt pocket.

  We sat down at the table in the kitchen. Molly pulled her chair close to mine so that she was half lying in my lap. I put my arm around her shoulders and could feel her trembling, like a kitten who’d narrowly escaped the jaws of a ferocious dog.

  I wasn’t so steady myself.

  “He was wearing a ski mask,” I said.

  “How about physical build?”

  “Five-seven or so. Around a hundred and seventy pounds.” Even though I routinely looked at height and weight notations as part of my work, I had trouble estimating when a given individual was concerned. “He was stocky,” I added. “Muscular.”

  “Anything about his voice? Or any distinguishing marks or tics?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “You’re sure he wasn’t a neighbor?”

  I looked at him like he was nuts. “My neighbors don’t hold a knife to my daughter’s throat, among other things.”

  He ignored the sarcasm. “Nothing familiar about the man?”

  I thought for a moment then shook my head. My memory of the event was less visual than emotional. I could see the knife at Molly’s throat and recall with absolute clarity the instant panic that had roared to life inside me. But I didn’t remember much about the man himself.

  “Who has a key to your house?” Dickey hadn’t found any jimmied doors or windows, though he pointed out that with sophisticated thieves it was sometimes hard to tell.

  “Only my dad and my brother.”