by Lisa Gardner
“No,” Lairmore said.
“No?”
Lairmore rewarded his incredulous tone with a stern look. “With all due respect, Agent, you are in healthcare fraud. Agent Chenney here has discovered we have a viable allegation against Dr. Harper Stokes and Dr. William Sheffield if we can prove their activities. That case is your job. That case needs your focus.”
“But the shooter, Larry Digger—”
“Will be investigated by the Boston PD since it falls in their jurisdiction. Just as the Meagan Stokes case is in very capable hands with Quincy.”
“Goddammit!” David bolted out of his chair, staring at his supervisor incredulously. “This is my case! I've worked my ass off connecting these dots, I got a terrified woman in a hotel room who doesn't even know if it's safe to go home to her family, and I got a direct link with the case I'm already working.”
“You do not have a link,” Lairmore fired back. He gave David a warning look. David didn't take it.
“The hell I don't! Twenty-five years ago, the Stokeses needed money and their daughter died, providing them with a million dollars. Now Harper is once more living beyond his means, and he's come up with another way of getting money, cutting open innocent people for profit. It's a pattern of behavior.”
Now even Chenney was looking at him as if he'd lost his mind. “There's no pattern. Murdering your kid is not remotely close to installing illegal pacemakers.”
“One is insurance fraud, one is healthcare fraud.”
“One is homicide! The other is criminal, sure, but an unnecessary pacemaker isn't even dangerous. The pacemaker would be activated only if the person had a heart attack.”
“Someone could seize up and die on the table. Reckless endangerment of human life.”
“Which is still a far cry from murdering your own kid.”
“The rookie is right,” Lairmore said. “You have established motive, Agent Riggs, but you haven't established character. We know Harper Stokes likes his lifestyle, maybe enough to commit fraud, but what evidence do we have that he would commit murder? Does he have a history of violence?”
“No.”
“Child abuse, spousal abuse? Neglect?”
“No.”
“By all accounts, he's raised two healthy children. No trips to emergency rooms, no arguments reported by neighbors. And in your first report on Harper Stokes didn't you write that he has a reputation for being a doting father and being exceedingly generous with his wife?”
David gritted his teeth. “Yes.”
“And Patricia Stokes. I know Quincy has questions about the carefully wrapped body, but again, any history of abuse or neglect?”
“She has a problem with alcohol.”
“Which resurfaced six months ago. Any reports of violence then?”
David was forced to shake his head.
“Which brings us to Jamie O'Donnell. Maybe we have a criminal past there. According to Larry Digger, he visited the midwife in Texas, but again, by all reports he dotes on his godchildren and is close to the family.
“That just leaves us with Brian Stokes,” Lairmore continued. “But by your own admission, he adores his second sister and has always been extremely protective of her. Face it, Agent, this case is over your head. The motives are there and opportunity is there, but none of the players make sense, at least not to our eyes. So leave it to the experts. Leave it to Quincy.”
“They are connected,” David said stiffly, “and I'll tell you one last reason why.”
Lairmore and Chenney looked impatient for his little display to end.
“The caller,” David stated. “The anonymous tipster who alerted us to the healthcare fraud at the same time he was alerting Larry Digger to Melanie. His agenda seems to be revenge for Meagan Stokes, for making sure everyone gets what they deserve. So if he's bringing us in on it, they're related, they're all related.”
Lairmore remained skeptical, but finally he sighed.
“All right, Agent. I'll give you one last shot. Establish character. Bring me any proof that Harper, Patricia, or Brian Stokes is cruel enough or cold enough or clinically unstable enough to engineer the death of four-year-old Meagan Stokes, and I'll let you work on it—in your own time. Right now I believe that health-care fraud is the only viable case my agents have.”
“Fine,” David said curtly.
Since Lairmore didn't want to hear anything more about twenty-five-year-old homicides, they focused on the fraud angle that Chenney had uncovered. They had no hard physical evidence, so their options were limited. They could prove motive—money—and opportunity. But they needed physical evidence or a good eyewitness account. Eyewitnesses, unfortunately, were notoriously hard to get in a hospital setting. There were too many nurses and doctors around for most patients to keep straight, and nurses and doctors had a code of silence. They did not rat each other out even when they saw evidence of a crime.
The consensus was to put Chenney in the hospital undercover as a janitor. He'd prowl the ICU, ask the nurses questions, maybe even catch Sheffield in the act.
David was given the fun-filled act of building the paper trail. Going over the financial statements to prove need. Looking for evidence of payoffs between Harper and Sheffield.
Then he turned his attention to Melanie Stokes, where he began his work in earnest. But by the end of the day he had merely proven Lairmore's point. Except for the migraines, Melanie was in perfect health, not a single broken bone, not a single unexplained bruise. She was reported as happy and well-adjusted, the recipient of the best birthday parties on the block.
By all accounts, her entire family simply loved her to death.
TWENTY
M ELANIE WOKE UP Tuesday morning thinking of Meagan, of the family she loved so much and had assumed loved her.
She got up to stand in front of the dresser and stared at her reflection. Dammit, she did not look like Meagan. She was not nearly as beautiful.
She slapped the top of the dresser, then stormed downstairs.
David wasn't around but he'd left a note on the kitchen table.
Went to meeting. Will be back after five. Remember, no going outdoors. D.
She set down the note and roamed the room. She found frozen vegetables in the freezer and a jar of instant coffee on the counter. She boiled water to give herself something to do. While it heated up, she unburied her Day-Timer from her purse and looked up her schedule. The books were way overdue to the rare book dealer. She'd planned lunch with an old friend from Wellesley, followed by an afternoon meeting with the committee for the children's hospital winter ball. It was already nearly June and they had yet to line up entertainment. The whole thing was a disaster waiting to happen.
Melanie got on the phone and canceled everything. She had the flu, she said. Everyone was sympathetic. They encouraged her to rest. Of course they could manage without her.
She hung up feeling disappointed. She'd wanted dismay, she realized finally, cries of We need you, Melanie, we'll never make it without you.
You're special, Melanie. Indispensable. You are not a substitute daughter.
Dammit, how could her mother say she'd wanted Meagan again? How could she have looked at Melanie and seen Meagan?
Was it always just about Meagan?
Did they all feel that way? Her mother, her father, her brother, her godfather. The people who had taken her in and given her a home. The people she trusted and considered her own family.
Melanie thought, To hell with questions. She was going to figure out the answers.
On a pad of paper she drew a circle and labeled it Meagan. Then around it she drew circles for her mother, her father, her brother, and Jamie. Then she drew in Russell Lee Holmes, Larry Digger, and herself. Finally she added Ann Margaret. David seemed to feel she was involved, and at this point Melanie shouldn't exclude any possibilities. Considering that, she also drew in William Sheffield.
Nine different people, all surrounding one little girl.
She drew lines connecting Meagan to her mother, father, brother, and godfather. It actually bothered her, like acknowledging another woman in a lover's life. But it was true. Meagan had come first. Melanie added Larry Digger's relationship as journalist. She could not come up with any direct lines for William Sheffield or Ann Margaret.
Russell Lee Holmes was even more troubling. She wanted to write killer, but Quincy had raised too much doubt. Russell Lee was connected not directly to Meagan then, but to the other people encircling Meagan.
And after a moment's hesitation she drew a line between Russell Lee Holmes and herself. Father and daughter. There in black and white.
After that she found that the rest flowed easier.
A LITTLE AFTER five-thirty David rapped on the door three times, then entered. He was holding a paper bag. From the couch Melanie arched a brow inquiringly.
“Brought Chinese,” David said at last. He held out the bag, trying to gauge her mood.
“Fine,” she agreed.
He edged into the kitchen. “Spicy orange beef and General Tsao's chicken.”
“Nice.” Despite David's fear, she was not angry with him. She'd spent the day with her diagram and it had given her what she needed most—conclusive proof that her family could not have killed Meagan Stokes. It made Melanie happy.
She climbed off the sofa and followed David into the kitchen.
David's jacket was off, his green paisley tie loosened, and his white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was getting to the point of needing a haircut. His hair held track marks from his fingers running through it one too many times, and those lines were back at the corners of his eyes.
He looked like he'd had a very bad day, and for a moment Melanie was tempted to cup his cheek with her hand. She wondered if he would turn his face into her touch. She wondered if he would move closer . . .
She had liked the way he'd held her last night.
He said, “The bowls are in the cupboard.”
She got them down and they dished up their dinner. They ate in silence for nearly half the meal before David spoke up.
“How was your day?”
“I watched Jerry Springer. Enough said. And yours?”
He dug deeper into his fried rice. “I would've preferred Jerry Springer. Did you sleep at all last night?”
“A little.”
“Any more dreams of Meagan?”
“A blend. Meagan Stokes in that cabin. But you were there too.”
He glanced at her in surprise. A grain of rice decorated his bottom lip, and without thinking she brushed it away with her thumb. The motion caught them both off guard, and she quickly pulled her hand back.
“Um . . . I was in the cabin with you and Meagan Stokes,” she said a trifle breathlessly.
“Me?” He sounded frazzled himself and was studying his bowl intently. “What was I doing there?”
“Housecleaning.”
“What?”
Melanie took another bite of food. “Meagan Stokes was in the corner of the cabin, clutching her horse and very, very afraid. Then you walked into the cabin and started cleaning. Swept the floor, removed the cobwebs, cleaned the windows. Oh, and you hung drapes.”
“I hung drapes?” David looked stricken. “So much for to serve and protect.”
“They were very nice drapes,” Melanie said. “Meagan was happy.”
“Housekeeper extraordinaire,” he muttered, pushing his empty bowl away. “Give me a cape and I'll call it a day.”
He sighed, and it hurt her to see the weariness on his face. “Well,” he said seriously, “do you want to know what I learned today?”
She pushed back her bowl and squared her shoulders. “Sure. Give it to me straight. What did you learn?”
“Nothing,” David said bluntly. “The great FBI agent learned nothing. This whole case simply makes no sense.” He stood and began to clear the table.
“The shooter?”
“Jax said they checked with area hospitals and locals. So far no sign.”
“Any more evidence from Larry Digger's room? The notes?”
“Nope, not a thing.” David walked into the kitchen, slammed the bowls in the sink.
“What about Meagan's case? Did you talk more about it?”
“Sure, I reviewed it with my supervisor and Chenney. We all agree that Quincy raised excellent questions. I sure as hell don't believe Russell Lee did it. That leaves us with your family, as you know. They do have motive.”
“The money,” she said flatly, and stood herself. The subject was too aggravating to handle sitting. “The million-dollar life insurance policy.”
“Better than that. We think your mother and Jamie O'Donnell might have been having an affair back then.”
“What?”
“Police notes. O'Donnell was spending a lot of time around the house and your parents were having a lot of marital difficulties. Screaming matches, that kind of thing.”
Melanie shook her head. “My parents don't scream at each other. They have ‘discussions' behind closed doors.”
“Yeah, well, back then they were fighting enough to attract the notice of the hired help and friends. Seems that your father wasn't very faithful—”
“He flirts a lot.” She held up a hand and conceded: “Maybe he does more than flirt, but as strange as this sounds, I don't think my mom minds. I've always had the impression she accepts my father's job and lifestyle as male prerogative. Boys will be boys.”
“What's good for the goose . . .”
Melanie pursed her lips, not liking this newest allegation. But these days there seemed to be more she didn't know about her family than she did.
She moved to the coffee table and picked up the hotel pad that revealed her work for the day.
“Then we come to your brother,” David said.
“Brian was nine years old!”
“And troubled enough to be seeing a shrink. Plus, your mom herself had given the nanny orders not to leave him alone with Meagan. He seemed to be very jealous of her and very destructive of her toys. Remember, he said that he'd thrown her toy pony against the fireplace.
“So now we have money, love, and mental instability all running in your family. But here's a twist. I did full background checks on your family, and there is simply nothing to suggest they're capable of murdering a four-year-old girl.”
Melanie nodded vigorously and waved her notepad in the air. “Exactly! Look here. I wrote down what Quincy said about the person who did the crime, and I've done a little analysis of my own. I've been arguing that my family couldn't do it because I loved them so much. Since that doesn't carry weight in criminal investigations, I decided to look at it your way.”
She sat down on the sofa and placed the notepad on the coffee table. David took a seat next to her. She could feel the warmth of his body against her leg. She spoke faster and kept her eyes on the diagram.
“Here is Meagan and my family. Here is what we know about everyone's relationship, and here is what we know about each individual. I was thinking of what Quincy said about profiling, that you look at the psychology under the behavior. I'm not sure I can objectively say that my parents are good or bad people, but I believe I can objectively say if they are smart or precise or sloppy.”
“Okay,” David said, studying her picture. “I can grant you that much.”
“Here is what Quincy said about the person who killed Meagan Stokes. The person is precise and knowledgeable about police procedure. Then the person has to be clever enough and credible enough to approach Meagan. Also, I guess the person has to be tough enough to deal with the likes of Russell Lee Holmes. At the same time, however, the person is maternal, at least caring and remorseful enough to wrap Meagan in a blanket and bury the body. He'd also have to feel guilty for what he did, guilty enough to, well, decapitate her.”
Even on paper that aspect of the crime still horrified her. She swallowed, and not wanting to lose momentum, for she clearly had David's full attention
, she rapped the pencil tip against her diagram.
“Now, that's a unique combination of traits. Distinct, wouldn't you say? So let's look at our players. We have my father, who is very precise and smart. But frankly, as much as I love him, I can tell you he's not maternal. Hugs and kisses are definitely my mother's department. As for knowledge of police procedure, I don't think my father has even gotten a speeding ticket in his life. He doesn't watch cop dramas or read true crime, so I think he's a total washout there. Plus, tough enough to approach and/or intimidate Russell Lee Holmes? Please, this man can't bear to go a week without a manicure. Russell Lee would eat him alive.
“So, what about my mother? Now, she fits for being maternal, remorseful, and guilty. But do you really think my mother is precise? Haven't you ever seen how hard her hands shake? And while I think she's an intelligent woman, she's not this kind of clever, let alone knowledgeable about police procedure. And there really is no way she would ever approach a man like Russell Lee. Can you imagine that? So she doesn't fit either.
“Now, my godfather . . . I'll be honest. I've always had the impression that Jamie knows things. He has a way of moving, you know. If you're a female he loves, it's very reassuring, like spending time around the tough kid in school. He grew up hard and I imagine he could intimidate a man like Russell Lee Holmes. And he probably knows something about law enforcement. But Jamie isn't precise. He's blunt, physical, and rough around the edges. Also, I can't see Jamie harming a little girl. In his world that would be . . . dishonorable, I guess. He could be cruel to someone who threatened someone he loved, but he'd cut off his own hand before he'd harm a child. Actually, he's even a little maternal toward kids. Certainly he's affectionate and loving toward Brian and me. He's just not that combination of cold, precise, callousness.
“Then we have my brother.”
“He's a doctor,” David interjected. “So he must be precise.”
“At the age of nine? And what would he know about police procedure, David? And how in the world would a nine-year-old convince Russell Lee to confess to a crime he didn't commit? Don't you see?” She turned, looking at him earnestly. “There is no one on this page who fits what Quincy is looking for. I'm not an expert, true, but put at this level, it doesn't work. The killer simply isn't my family. End of story.”
