Damaged

by Pamela Callow

  Putting the voice mails on the speaker phone, she ate her salad while scribbling down phone numbers. The first six voice mails were the usual: lawyers needing to exchange information or set up meetings and clients wanting updates. The seventh voice mail stopped her in her tracks.

  It was a young girl’s voice, hesitant, rough sounding, in complete contrast to the educated adult voices that had filled her message box. “It’s Shonda. You told me to call if I remembered the name of that dead girl Karen.”

  Kate picked up her phone receiver.

  “Anyway, it came to me all of a sudden. Her name is Karen Fawcett.”

  There was a click, and then Kate’s voice mail went into its usual spiel. She replayed the message, wrote down Karen Fawcett’s name, then deleted the record.

  The dead prostitute’s name blurred in front of her eyes. Shonda had come through for her. She hadn’t come through yet for Shonda.

  Should she try to track her down? Ethan had warned her—no, he’d ordered her—not to. To leave this to the police. She could jeopardize the investigation; she could inadvertently let a killer remain free.

  But Karen Fawcett wasn’t a missing person. She was dead. And the cops believed she died from exposure. So she wasn’t even on their radar. Kate wouldn’t be jeopardizing their investigation if she kept her promise to Shonda. And right now, keeping her promise was the only thing she could hold on to.

  All she needed to do was confirm that the prostitute died of exposure. The easiest way to confirm it would be her death certificate. But when she looked it up on online, she discovered that information was only accessible with permission from her next of kin.

  She stared at her computer screen. There was another potential source of information. Karen Fawcett’s obituary. It might say something about the circumstances of her death. And it was in the public domain. Kate rubbed a hand over her face. She hated reading obituaries. She’d hated reading them ever since she’d had to help her mother write her sister’s. She hated seeing all those names associated with platitudes like they “fought a courageous battle.” It was never a battle they won.

  Her fingers hit the keyboard with a fierceness that was meant to bolster her courage. Within minutes, she had located the local paper’s archives for the obituaries. Satisfaction overrode her reluctance. Karen Fawcett was in the database.

  Kate scanned the sparse text. Karen had died last February. There was no mention of cause of death, although the obituary said Karen Marie had been taken to her Lord “suddenly.” It was eerily familiar to Imogen’s obituary in terms of its obliqueness. No one had wanted to spell out the fact Imogen had been killed in a car crash. Given who was driving.

  The obituary was pitifully short. Either Karen’s family didn’t have the money to spend on the text, or they had little to say about their dead child. Kate drummed her fingers on her desk. Charitable donations often indicated what had caused the death. But no charity was mentioned. The only guidance given to mourners was that Keane’s Funeral Home was handling the burial service.

  A knock on the door made her swing her chair around.

  “Your one o’clock canceled. She rescheduled for tomorrow,” Liz announced. Her eyes flickered over Kate’s computer monitor.

  Kate nodded. “Right. Thank you, Liz.”

  Liz threw one last look at the screen before leaving.

  Kate shut down the computer. Another dead end. If she hadn’t been so disappointed, she might have enjoyed the gallows humor of her thought. But now she had nothing to tell Marian MacAdam and Shonda. She’d wanted to be able to reassure them that Karen Fawcett’s death was as innocuous as the police believed.

  She rubbed her temples. There was one last avenue: the funeral home that had handled Karen’s remains. Maybe they would be able to give her some information. She jotted down the address.

  Her fingers stilled. She stared at what she’d written. She’d been to that funeral home before. It had been called O’Brien’s fifteen years ago.

  All of her ghosts were coming home. She just hoped they wouldn’t want to linger.

  25

  Kate slung her purse over her shoulder and tried not to look self-conscious as she walked through the hallway of her firm. It was 4:45 p.m., early to be leaving. Certainly the earliest she had ever left LMB before. She bet none of the other first-year associates had left yet.

  The traffic was heavy in the downtown core. It was 5:20 p.m. before she drove up to the front of the funeral home. A large, deep building, it had been transformed from a brick monolith to a Grecian-style mansion with white siding and massive columns. She would never have recognized it as the one in which her sister had lain.

  Kate rang the bell next to a massive double door. Her palms were sweaty despite the cool air. She wiped her hands hurriedly on her skirt.

  The door swung open. For a moment—a split second that made Kate catch her breath—she’d expected to see the erect figure of Mr. O’Brien, the previous funeral director, standing in the shadow of the door frame.

  Instead, a blond woman in her forties held open the door. “Hello. May I help you?” she asked. Her voice was rougher than her clothes. She wore a chic, chocolate-brown suit with pinstripes in pale pink that covered a sturdy frame. Brown suede pumps and chunky gold earrings were her sole accessories.

  Kate guessed this was Anna Keane, the self-made businesswoman who had bought the aging funeral home from Mr. O’Brien and grew it into one of the largest and most successful funeral parlors on the Atlantic coast.

  “Ms. Keane?”

  The woman smiled. Her teeth glowed ultrawhite against her shiny lip gloss. “Yes.”

  “I’m Kate Lange, from Lyons McGrath Barrett. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.” At the mention of her firm’s name, Kate saw the woman’s tanned face tighten. She probably thought she was being sued for a botched embalmment. Kate added with a placating smile, “I’m not here representing a client.”

  This reassurance didn’t warm up Anna Keane. “Why don’t we talk in my office,” she said, her voice stiff. She ushered Kate into the foyer.

  Kate looked around. Her heart, which had begun pounding as soon as she’d pulled into the parking lot, now began to beat crazily. The air closed in on her. Like when she was sixteen.

  Breathe. You did it before. You can do it again.

  Anna Keane walked quickly. Kate picked up her pace. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the interior had been updated in typical understated yet tastefully elegant funeral-home decor that was the current style. And yet she could have sworn when she’d walked in that it’d been the same dated furnishings of fifteen years ago.

  Anna Keane led Kate to her office. It was graciously appointed, with a gleaming mahogany desk and navy chairs. Rather like Kate’s own. It was an uncomfortable realization. Business was business.

  “Please have a seat.” Anna Keane pointed to a round conference table in the corner. A vase of white forget-me-nots was placed precisely in the middle. Kate sat down.

  Anna Keane lowered herself in the chair opposite. “Why are you here?” She smiled after the question but Kate wasn’t fooled. Anna Keane wanted to take control of this discussion. And despite the funeral director’s cool composure, Kate sensed that her presence rattled her. She wondered if Anna Keane had any idea that the feeling was mutual.

  “I’m doing some background checking on several women whose families were your clients,” Kate said. Her voice sounded high, tight.

  Breathe slowly.

  Anna Keane’s gaze sharpened. “Oh? And for what purpose?”

  “More for my own conscience than anything else.” Her voice, thankfully, came out more assured this time.

  “You realize that we cannot divulge private information about our clients, Ms. Lange.”

  There was no getting around it; she’d have to be frank with Anna Keane if she hoped for any information from her. “Okay, here’s the story, Ms. Keane. I know the family of Lisa MacAdam.” The only sign that Anna
Keane recognized the name was a slight raising of her brows. “Her grandmother was told by a friend of Lisa’s that several other girls had gone missing.” Anna Keane’s brows rose a fraction higher. “All of them have died, except for one. Two of them had their remains managed by your funeral home.”

  Anna Keane leaned back, her eyes fixed on Kate. “Who were these girls who went missing?”

  “Krissie Burns, Lisa MacAdam and Karen Fawcett.” Krissie’s identity had been announced in a press release this morning, so Kate knew she wasn’t giving away anything she shouldn’t.

  “I certainly recognize the name of the first two girls.” She shook her head. “What a tragedy about the MacAdam girl.”

  “Do you remember anything about Karen Fawcett? She would have been another street kid or prostitute. She died last February. Your firm handled her service.”

  Anna Keane gave her a weary smile. “We handle the remains of a lot of people like Karen. More than you can imagine.” She shrugged. “I thought it would be a small contract when the city asked for tenders to handle the remains of indigents. If I’d known I’d have so many, I would have charged more. We certainly don’t make any money, Ms. Lange.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Our contract just provides the basic cremation and interment. If the family suddenly appears—and you’d be surprised how many want to mourn someone they rejected while they were alive—they often want the extras to make up for the years their loved one lived on the street. So they ask for a service, flowers, an urn. They have to pay for those. Most of the time, they have no money.” She paused. “When the grief seems genuine, I write the extras off as a charitable donation.”

  There was a ruminative look in Anna Keane’s eyes that made Kate suddenly think, She’s a lot softer than she lets on.

  “Do you remember anything about Karen Fawcett and her family? The police told Lisa’s friend she had died of exposure.”

  Anna Keane closed her eyes for a moment. Kate noticed the fine lines around them. There were grooves around her lips, too. It couldn’t be easy facing death every day.

  She opened her eyes and caught Kate studying her. “If I recall correctly, Karen Fawcett was young? Maybe eighteen or twenty?”

  “That sounds about right.”

  “They found her frozen on a golf course.” Anna Keane leaned back in her chair. “Another young girl who had a drug habit that she fed by prostituting herself.”

  “How did you know she had a drug habit?”

  “If she’s the one I’m remembering, she had needle marks on her arms. In fact, the veins were shot. We found more marks between her toes. She was a real junkie.”

  This woman must know a lot of the dead’s secrets. It was an unnerving thought. Kate hoped her body wouldn’t have any secrets to betray when she died.

  “What about her family?”

  Anna Keane shook her head. “She was just a straight contract delivery—cremation and interment in the city’s lot. Her family showed up later.” She shrugged. “That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid.” She rose to her feet.

  Kate stood. “Thanks very much, Ms. Keane. I appreciate your help.”

  Anna Keane walked her to the door. “I hope I put your conscience to rest.” She gave a crooked smile. “Even though morticians are supposed to handle the remains of the dead, I find I spend more time dealing with the remains of the living.”

  Kate stared into Anna Keane’s light brown eyes. She wished she’d known Anna Keane when Imogen died. The funeral director seemed a genuine straight shooter, not dripping with fake concern or the barely concealed disapproval of Mr. O’Brien.

  She held out her hand. “I think families would be very fortunate to have you help them at such a difficult time.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Lange.” Anna Keane led her to the main doors.

  Anna Keane opened the door. Kate suddenly remembered Shonda’s other friend. “Have you ever heard of Vangie Wright? She’s the friend of Lisa’s that no one can account for.”

  Anna Keane shook her head. “Sorry, Ms. Lange. I’ve never heard of her.” She smiled again. “Believe me, in my business, that’s a good thing.”

  26

  Kate stared through the windshield of her car at Keane’s Funeral Home. Relief washed through her. She’d made it through the interview without embarrassing herself. It had been strangely cathartic. The changed interior, the more modern, compassionate female funeral director. It had helped erase the memory of the dim room in which Imogen’s smashed body lay, of Mr. O’Brien’s stiff disapproval whenever she arrived.

  More than anything else, it had been Mr. O’Brien’s manner toward her sixteen-year-old self that had shown her how much her life had changed. She’d gone from attractive, promising young woman to irresponsible, fatally flawed teen. It had been a swift but shattering fall from grace.

  She leaned back in her seat. Her limbs were weak. She hadn’t realized until now that she had half expected to see Mr. O’Brien appear at her elbow as she walked through the funeral home foyer. The fact that he hadn’t, that he no longer owned the business, that she would no longer need to see the censure in his gaze, lifted a weight off her chest she hadn’t been aware of until it was gone.

  She’d done what she’d promised to do. She’d tracked down Karen Fawcett. Everything checked out. That was an even bigger relief. If it hadn’t, she would have had to call the police. And she could just imagine how Ethan’d react to her latest update on her involvement in the MacAdam case.

  She dialed Shonda’s number. Anticipation quickened her pulse. She’d go home after this and relax. Have a glass of wine and read the remaining home-decorating magazine that Alaska hadn’t shredded. Unless he’d eaten it today—

  “Yeah?” Shonda answered in a bored tone.

  “Hi, Shonda. It’s Kate Lange.”

  “Yeah?” Shonda’s voice rose a notch.

  “I followed up on the girls you told me about.”

  “Girls?” The plural came out slurred.

  Dismay quelled Kate’s excitement. Shonda sounded like she’d been using.

  “You know, the missing girls you told me about a few days ago,” she said carefully. She wanted Shonda to understand what she was telling her. “Krissie Burns, Karen Fawcett and Vangie Wright.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Right.”

  Kate hesitated. “There is some bad news about Krissie.”

  “Yeah. I heard.” Shonda’s voice was dull, emotionless. “The cops’ve been around asking questions.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  There was silence on the other end. She visualized Shonda’s face. The round, childish cheeks. The shuttered, watchful eyes. Intelligence glimmered in their brown depths, suffocated under layers of neglect, fear and drug abuse.

  Kate cleared her throat. “I passed on the information about Vangie Wright to the police. They have someone looking into her missing persons report.”

  “Yeah. I know. That blond guy.”

  “Blond guy?”

  “Yeah. He had some dogs… Did y’know Lisa was crazy ’bout dogs?”

  “Yes, I heard.” A blond guy with dogs who knew Lisa. Her fingers clenched around the phone. “Was the guy’s name Finn?”

  “Uh-huh.” Shonda’s voice was trailing off.

  Why was Finn asking Lisa’s friends questions? Kate thought again of Lisa’s funeral. She’d been sure he was the guy who’d tried to help her. Yet he denied it. And now he was playing private investigator. Why? Ethan would be furious if he knew some guy was snooping around on his turf.

  Shonda breathed heavily, quickly, into the phone. Kate was losing her. She needed to focus. She needed Shonda to stay on the line until she finished her report. She needed this to be over with. “I tracked down the funeral home where Karen Fawcett was cremated and they confirmed her death was not suspicious.”

  “Yeah.” This was barely more than a mumble.

  “So that’s good. But, Shonda, the other victims appear to be in your circle of friends. B
e caref—”

  The cell phone went dead.

  Kate stared out the window. The stream of cars going by her window had gotten thinner. Should she have told Shonda about the link between Lisa’s and Krissie’s homicides?

  No. The media had already reported it. It was up to the police to warn these girls. She’d never live with herself if she inadvertently screwed up their investigation.

  Her next call was much shorter. Marian MacAdam listened to her report with little comment. “Thank you for looking into this,” she said. “I’m disappointed you couldn’t come up with more. Especially since that prostitute has been found murdered.”

  “I am not a detective, Mrs. MacAdam,” Kate said. The clock on the dash showed it was past six-thirty. She was still in her car, sitting by the curb. “And from what I understand, the police are following all these leads. They don’t need me to do their job for them.”

  “No.” Marian MacAdam sounded suddenly weary. “I suppose not.” There was a pause. “Is that all, Ms. Lange?”

  It could never be enough for Marian MacAdam. Nothing would ever fill the trench her guilt had dug in her heart. Kate understood. Her own trench remained as empty and ragged as it had fifteen years ago.

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  Dust had already settled on the room. Even in the dimness of twilight, Hope could see the motes floating lazily, undisturbed and indifferent to her presence.

  Her heart thudded. Calm down. You can do this.

  She had to do it. She had to prove to Marian that she could confront Lisa’s belongings, that she had nothing to feel remorseful about.

  A note had appeared in Hope’s mailbox at work yesterday. I would like to have returned the music box I gave Lisa for her eighth birthday. The note was unsigned.