But what were Emily’s problems? Running away three years ago had been a shock. Worse, Julia hadn’t even known Emily had run. Crystal didn’t tell her. It wasn’t until she came by the following Sunday morning to pick her up that Crystal said her daughter hadn’t come home from school on Tuesday. That had been five days previous. Emily could have been kidnapped, raped, or murdered. The prosecutor in Julia had envisioned every scenario with increasing dread.
Crystal had notified the police and filed a missing persons report forty-eight hours after Emily didn’t return home from school, but there was no evidence of foul play, no ransom request, nothing.
That was when Julia took matters into her own hands and hired a private investigator.
She straightened and everything became clear. Connor Kincaid. She couldn’t be involved in the investigation—she knew the DA would have a fit considering how politically charged this case promised to be—but Connor was a pit bull when he cared about something. And he cared about Emily. He’d tracked her down after three torturous months and brought her home.
He’d made it clear that finding Emily three years ago when she’d run away was the last time he planned on talking to Julia, but Connor wouldn’t turn his back on Emily when she needed him.
And she needed him, now more than ever. There was no way Julia could trust Crystal with Emily’s welfare. The police, though more than competent, had a multitude of cases on their plate. And the press… Julia didn’t even want to think what was going to be in the newspapers and on television over the coming days. She’d managed to keep a low profile, especially after Matt died, but the vultures always circled around the money and tragedy that surrounded the Chandler name.
She pulled out her cell phone and looked up Connor’s number in her electronic address book. She’d had to swallow her pride to call him three years ago to find Emily, but she still had his number. Just in case.
His voice mail picked up. “Kincaid here. Leave a message.” Beep.
Why was her heart pounding? She cleared her throat. “Connor, it’s Julia Chandler. I have a job for you. It’s about Emily.” She left her number and hung up. She hated using Em’s name, but he’d never call back if he thought it would help her.
“Counselor?” Jim Gage came down the stairs and cocked his head. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to check on my niece, Emily.”
Gage didn’t look surprised. “She’s at the hospital. Where’s Hooper?”
“Talking to the victim’s wife.”
“Would that be your sister-in-law?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I haven’t touched anything. Tell me what happened.” When Gage didn’t respond, she added, “I’m going to hear about it when I get to the office.”
Detective Hooper stepped out of the living room, closed the doors behind him, and glanced from Julia to Gage. “Well, that didn’t go over too well. Mrs. Montgomery’s calling her lawyer.”
“Why?” Julia asked. “Is she a suspect?”
“She has an alibi.” He paused, uncertain.
“Will, I just told Gage that I’ll hear all the details anyway. You know that. Just spill it.”
“I can’t imagine a mother not worried about her teenaged daughter after she discovers her husband murdered,” he said simply. “It just doesn’t ring true.”
“You don’t know Crystal Montgomery. She’s a sociopath,” Julia said.
“What?”
“She’s narcissistic and a pathological liar. My brother was married to her for ten years and I had to fight for visitation of my only niece after he died. She would never think of Emily first, second, or last. It’s all Crystal, all the time. The phrase, ‘it’s all about me’ could have been coined just for her.”
Julia cleared her throat. “Look, I need to know what happened to Victor. Emily couldn’t possibly have killed him. I know my niece.”
Gage put up his hands. “Stop. This is a preliminary investigation and a crime scene, not a deposition.”
“Are you done upstairs?” Will asked.
“Almost.” He looked over Julia’s shoulder at Will.
“I get it,” she said, irritated. “You want me to leave. I will, right after you tell me what happened to Victor.”
It was Will who spoke. “He was killed in his den. His, um, penis was removed.”
She swallowed hard, unable to speak.
“Actually,” Gage said, “he choked to death. On his penis.”
Julia blanched. “And you think a young girl is capable of that?”
“She couldn’t have done it alone,” Gage said. “At least two other people helped.”
“So you think that a sixteen-year-old girl could convince two others to choke to death a fifty-year-old judge with his own dick? What did the killer use? A knife?” Julia’s mind went through all the scenarios. “He’d have to have been drugged or restrained. Did you find rope, tape, or—”
“Ms. Chandler, we’re in the middle of the investigation and the district attorney will be getting our report shortly.” Gage suddenly looked tired and irritated.
“Did you know that Judge Montgomery just sentenced Herman Santos to death row?” Julia said. “He has enough people to pull off something like this, and—”
She mentally hit herself.
“Of course you know that.” Julia released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Okay. I understand. But don’t you think it’s odd that the wife of the victim didn’t inform dispatch that there was possibly a second victim in the house? What would a normal person do if you walked in and found your spouse murdered?”
Will said, “I’d hunt through the house for the culprit.”
“Don’t think like a cop.”
Gage nodded. “If I were in her shoes, I might leave the house out of fear. Call nine-one-one.”
“And tell them your daughter might be in the house.”
“Maybe she was too distraught. In shock. It wasn’t a pretty scene.”
“Murder never is, Dr. Gage.”
Will interjected, “Even if she was in shock, when the responding officers arrived, at the very least, she should have told them there was someone else inside. They searched the house per protocol, looking first for a culprit.”
“Exactly.” Julia nodded.
“Maybe the mother didn’t think she was home?” Gage offered.
“Emily is on probation,” Julia said. “She has to be at home from six p.m. through six a.m. every day unless she is with a parent or guardian.”
“What did she do to land probation?”
Julia took a deep breath. “She vandalized the courthouse last year.”
Recognition sparked in Gage’s eyes. “I remember. Graffiti.”
“She spray-painted ‘hypocrites’ all over the building,” Will said. “Some sort of political statement?” He looked at Julia for answers she didn’t have.
“Emily never talked about it. That’s why she was sent to a psychiatrist. That was one of the court orders.”
Will made note of that. “Dr. Garrett Bowen.”
“Right.”
“He prescribed a lot of medication for a teenager.”
Julia tensed. Now she needed to get out. She knew too much about the medication, too much about what Emily was and was not doing with it.
She would not jeopardize her niece, but she couldn’t lie to law enforcement. They were on the same side. She had to remember that.
“Emily did not kill Victor Montgomery,” Julia said. “That much I know.”
“But maybe she knows who did,” Will said pointedly.
Julia ached for her niece. “I’m going to the hospital.”
“Don’t interview her,” Will warned.
“I’m not,” she snapped. “She needs someone who loves her right now, and I think I’m the only person in the world who does.”
Will walked Julia to her car. “Julia.”
She turn
ed to look at him, swallowing the fear and worry that rose in her throat. “What?”
“I have the utmost respect for you. You’re one of the best we have in the DA’s office. But I have to tell you something as a friend.” He stared at her, his expression stern. “The only thing you can do for Emily right now is to get her an attorney. And you have the money to hire the best.”
She put a hand on her stomach, feeling sucker-punched. “Is the evidence that damning?”
Will sighed. “It doesn’t look good.”
Julia slid into her car, then made the second call she didn’t want to make. This time, the person called picked up the phone.
“Iris Jones.”
“Iris, it’s Julia Chandler.”
Iris laughed, low and full of irony. At least, that’s how it sounded to Julia. “I heard about Montgomery.”
“News travels fast.”
“Helps when you’re listening. I knew you’d call me.”
Julia almost hung up. She didn’t like Iris Jones, attorney-at-law, or Iris Jones, the person. Oil versus water. Justice versus anarchy.
But Iris was as good at her job as Julia was at hers, and she had a grudging respect for the woman.
“Emily was taken to Scripps Memorial. Can you meet me tonight?”
“Give me an hour.”
Will watched Julia drive off, wondering who she’d been talking to on the phone. He motioned to Diaz. “Hey, follow the counselor. I think she’s going to the hospital to visit her niece. Relieve the guard we have on Ms. Montgomery’s room and let me know what they say, okay?”
“Roger that.” Diaz left.
Gage joined him on the drive. “Chandler is going to be pissed if she finds out,” Gage said.
“She’d be doing the same thing if she were thinking straight,” Will countered. “It’s pretty obvious what’s going on. Julia Chandler and Crystal Montgomery hate each other. Crystal was married to Julia’s brother. He dies, and Crystal wants the Chandler money but not the Chandler family. I remember when Emily ran away.”
“I don’t,” Gage said.
“Connor Kincaid was the PI who found her.” As Carina Kincaid’s partner, Will was an honorary member of the Kincaid family. He knew more than most about Connor’s life since he’d been pushed off the police force.
“I’ve called the e-crimes unit to dismantle and check the computers and security system,” Gage said. “They’ll be here in an hour.”
“By the book, that’s all we can do right now.”
One of the crime technicians entered the front door.
“Dr. Gage?”
“What?”
“We found shears with possible blood evidence.”
“Shears?”
The assistant held up pruning shears sealed in a clear, thick plastic evidence bag. The curved blades made up half the ten-inch length. Except for the dried blood, they looked new and unused.
“Where’d you find them?”
“In the gardening shed behind the house. We have some foot impressions and other possible evidence. We’re collecting molds right now.”
“Keep me informed.”
Will said, “If the killer put the shears back in the shed, it couldn’t have been the stepdaughter, not in her condition.”
“I never believed she acted alone.”
FOUR
JUSTICE? REVENGE? PAYBACK? Any way the police looked at it, his plan was working even better than he’d hoped. He smiled, confident he was in complete control of the operation.
He poured himself a Scotch straight up, a twenty-one-year-old Chivas, took it out on the balcony, taking in the cool midnight ocean breeze. The view of the brightly lit coastline, the ocean, black and endless, moved him. He observed the exquisite beauty of the moment, held it with his trained eye, imprinted the exact time and emotion in his soul.
This is how God must feel.
Victor Montgomery was dead. Not only dead, but killed in a manner that suited his lifestyle. He loved the irony of Montgomery’s murder, just like he’d enjoyed the irony of how he picked his killing team, how he planned the executions, how everyone involved recognized and worshipped his brilliance.
His team leader had, of course, immediately reported the successful kill earlier that evening, so he didn’t have to wait for newspaper and television reports to announce Montgomery’s death. But it was only now, late at night, that he had time to sit alone in his beautiful home, with his favorite drink, and savor his triumph.
After the final kill, the circle would be complete. The police would scramble about with their theories, but they wouldn’t be able to prove anything. The media would learn the secrets of the murdered and expose their reputations to humiliation and embarrassment. Through it all, he’d sit in his house and enjoy the product of his handiwork, all without getting a drop of blood on his own hands.
He’d been thinking a lot lately about the beginning. The real beginning. Not when they’d executed the first kill. Not when he recruited his team, not even when he came up with the plan in the name of “justice.”
The real beginning was the day of his birth. Every day from then forward, his mother had told him he was destined for greatness. But again and again his decisions had been stolen from him. Life conspired to dominate him, control him.
Not anymore. He’d engaged in the battle and was winning.
He stared at his hands, the fingers with the Midas touch. His physique—strong, muscular, not an ounce of extra fat. He didn’t need a mirror to know he was handsome. He didn’t need a woman to tell him so.
Each step of his elaborate plan had been taken with extreme care. The test. The accident. The execution. Now for one more who would restore balance to the world. The one who really mattered.
He sighed, ran a hand over his face, and turned from his view. Poured himself another Chivas and ran through the scenarios. While the plan seemed under control, he had a wild card to worry about. She was always pushing, pushing, pushing toward the final kill. She didn’t understand the setup, but few people would be capable of that. He’d explained it over and over and still she only saw the end.
Impatience could cost him his freedom.
Inside, he put his glass down. He wasn’t worried about the kids—they toed the line. Quite easily, in fact. Cami was giving the boys what they needed, and Faye…
He sighed. Faye. She was really the only one who understood him, who enjoyed his unrivaled brilliance and his physical beauty. She knew, in her heart, exactly who he was. She would do anything he wanted, just because he asked her. She never asked why, she never questioned him. She loved him unconditionally.
He’d never before had that type of love, and he found himself wanting it more and more, craving his time with Faye to bask in her unbridled need for him. He couldn’t see her tonight, but he would soon.
It was the other one. The wild card. The one who almost blew everything eighteen months ago.
He was about to leave to visit her, make sure she stuck to the script, when his doorbell chimed.
Tense, he turned on the front-door security camera to see who was on his front porch.
It was her.
He opened the door. “What—”
“You fucked up!” she yelled.
He pulled her into the foyer and shut the door. “Don’t—”
“Turn on the news. Now.”
When he did, he was as surprised as she was. But not upset. “The plan was designed for every contingency. Don’t worry.”
“How can I not be worried? If they arrest Emily Montgomery, it’s only a matter of time—”
“They have no evidence.”
“Since when does evidence matter to the police? They have evidence, they don’t do anything. They don’t have evidence, they’ll make it up.”
“You’re exaggerating. Just calm down and—”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” She started pacing. She’d been pretty at one time, beautiful—he could still see it in her skin and lush hair—
but the anger and grief had eaten away the light in her eyes. He was trained to observe, but still he was surprised no one else saw what he did in her face.
He poured her a Chivas and watched as she drained it in one long gulp. “I promise, there have been no mistakes. Everything is under control.”
“How can you say that?”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Do you trust me?” she countered.
He laughed. “No, darling, you’re the last person I trust. But you’ll listen to me and do what I tell you because only then will we get what we’ve wanted for so long. Don’t let the fear in. Sit tight and follow the course I laid out.”
“I wish I’d done it my way at the beginning.” But she had calmed down, poured herself another drink, and sat on his couch, staring at the amber liquid as if it were rare.
He sat next to her. “If we’d done it your way, you’d be dead or in jail by now.”
“Being dead doesn’t sound all that bad,” she whispered. She slugged back the Scotch. “Better than living in Hell.”
Death made her feel alive.
Holding something so delicate in her hand, something men treasured—their existence—and having the power to let him keep it, or take it.
Her choice. Her decision.
Some people didn’t have choices. Some people couldn’t make their own decisions.
Cami closed her eyes, remembering exactly how it had played out. The plan had been executed perfectly. Victor Montgomery was a creep, through and through, and she knew exactly how to play him. How she had played so many other men in her life. If only she could tell her friends everything, they would relish her genius.
But some things were safer kept secret. Especially now when the end was so near.
The bed shifted next to her and Skip sat up.
“Where are you going?” she asked, panic building.
“It’s late. I need to go home.”
“No. No, not now.”
She reached for him, pulled him back down. He resisted for a brief minute and her panic turned to anger. That Skip would even think of walking away. From her. No man walked away. They all wanted her. Hadn’t she proved that today? That she could seduce a man to his own death?
See No Evil Page 3
