Lying in vait jpb-12

by J. A. Jance

  Deanna motioned for Jack and me to sit down on the green-and-white living-room couch. "Coffee?" she asked.

  We both accepted gratefully. While she hurried off to the kitchen to make it, I examined the two rooms that were visible from where I sat. They were furnished in a tasteful, uniformly comfortable style. The house seemed like some kind of safe haven in which Detective Jacek and I, along with our ugly reason for being there, provided the only jarring notes.

  Deanna Meadows was talking when she came back into the dining room, shouldering open the swinging door between that room and the kitchen.

  "I was on the phone with my aunt just before you got here," she said. She paused long enough to pass us mugs of coffee and to offer cream and sugar.

  "Aunt Mary is my mother's sister. I was all right for a while, but as soon as she started talking about Denise, it set me off all over again. I don't know what's the matter with me. I just can't seem to stop crying. It's hard to believe that it's happened-that she's really dead."

  Sipping his coffee, Detective Jacek nodded sympathetically. "I'm sure this is all very difficult for you-and having us show up so soon like this must seem pretty heartless. But in order to solve cases we have to gather information as quickly as we can."

  Deanna nodded. "I know," she said. "Mom told me. I promised her I'd do whatever I could to help."

  "What can you tell us about your sister?" Stan Jacek asked. "Her neighbors up on Camano Island knew her name and recognized her on sight, but she doesn't seem to have sought out friendships with any of them. No one could tell us much about her background-about where she came from and all that sort of thing."

  Deanna blew her nose. "I'll tell you what I can, but I have to watch the time," she said. "My folks left Anchorage by plane this morning. They're due in at Sea-Tac two hours from now. I'll have to leave before too long to go pick them up."

  "That's where you're from-Alaska?"

  Deanna nodded. "Not originally. My folks moved up there from Dayton, Ohio, during the oil rush. They liked it so much they never left."

  "What do your parents do?" I asked.

  "My father used to be a minister," she said. "Now he's the chief administrator in a convalescent home."

  "That's a big change."

  Deanna Meadows shrugged. "He pretty much had to do it. Dad just couldn't bring himself to stand up in front of people and preach Sunday sermons when his own family life was in such disarray."

  "How so?" I asked.

  "Because of Denise," Deanna answered, with more than a trace of bitterness in her voice. "It was always because of Denise. Isn't that why you're here?"

  "I'm not sure," Jacek said. "Maybe you'd better tell us."

  It took a while for Deanna Meadows to answer. "I guess you've heard all the bad talk about preachers' kids," she said at last. "About how awful they are."

  "I've heard rumors to that effect," Jacek agreed, "but from what I hear, teachers' kids are just as bad…or maybe even a little worse."

  " Some of them are," Deanna asserted, placing careful emphasis on the word "some." "Not all, but some."

  "So you're saying your sister went haywire?"

  "She didn't go haywire; she always was haywire, but I don't think anyone realized it at first. As a little kid, she was so pretty. She got good grades and was smart as a whip-a lot smarter than I ever was. They tested her at school once. Her scores were off the charts. Genius-level I.Q. But she had this dark side to her, mean almost.

  "As far as Denise was concerned, rules didn't exist. Not for her, anyway. Only for other people. The first time she got busted for soliciting, she was thirteen years old. She told my parents she was going to a slumber party with some of her friends from school. Instead, she was downtown trying to hustle visiting businessmen."

  "Thirteen's pretty young," Stan Jacek agreed. Deanna Meadows; to make it easier for her to continue. I knew I'd seen hookers in Seattle who hadn't seen their twelfth birthdays yet, and I'm pretty sure Jacek had, too. Maybe even in Coupeville.

  "What happened?" I asked.

  "The cops called my parents. Dad went down to juvie to get her; to bail her out. On the way home, he asked her what she was thinking of; how come she did it. She said she did it for the money, because she didn't get enough allowance. She told him she'd figured out that she could make more by the hour screwing-although she called it something much worse than screwing-than he did after twenty years of being a minister."

  "That must have been hard on him," Jacek said.

  Deanna laughed a harsh, raw, humorless laugh. " Hard is hardly the word for it!" she exclaimed. "Denise killed something in my father when she told him that-robbed him of something important-his dignity. He took it personally. Having Denise act like that made him feel like his whole life was a fraud, a joke. He must have thought he had failed his entire family."

  There was a long pause while Deanna Meadows gazed off into the middle distance and collected her frayed emotions. When she spoke again, I could hear the unvarnished bitterness behind her words.

  "Of course, I was there and doing all right. While Denise was out raising hell, I was busy finishing up my last year in high school and getting good grades, but that didn't seem to matter. It didn't count. I don't think anybody even noticed. That's what they say. The squeaky wheel is always the one that gets the oil."

  "What happened after your father brought Denise home?" Jacek asked.

  Deanna shrugged. "He must have written his letter of resignation that very night and turned it in the next day. He never preached another sermon. I used to love his sermons. He and Mom were both hurting, but Denise didn't give a damn. My parents tried to pick up some of the pieces-tried to glue them back together. They did all the things parents do, like going to counseling and all that, but it didn't work. Nothing worked. Denise didn't want to get better because she didn't think there was anything wrong with her.

  "Eventually, my parents just gave up. They had to. They ran out of time and energy and money all at the same time. They couldn't afford to keep of fighting. By then, my father had gone back to school to get a degree in hospital administration, and my mother was working as a receptionist in a doctor's office. Denise ran away for good when she was fourteen. I was already down here, going to school on a scholarship. I met a guy here at school. Gary's the best thing that ever happened to me. We ended up falling in love and getting married."

  "And Denise?"

  "She dropped out of sight completely. No one heard from her for years and years. Then, about a year and a half ago, out of a clear blue sky, she turned back up. Someone rang my doorbell one morning, and when I opened the door, there she was. ‘Hi,' she says with this big grin on her face, as though nothing had ever happened, like the years in between the last time I saw her and right then didn't exist.

  "‘It's your baby sister,' she says. ‘Remember me?'"

  Deanna closed her eyes as if remembering for a moment before she continued. "I was so shocked, I could hardly believe it. I mean, we all thought she was dead, but there she was, big as life."

  "You let her in?"

  "Of course I did. Wouldn't you if your long-lost sister showed up when you'd spent years thinking she was dead and buried? Not only was she alive, she looked like a million dollars.

  "She was all dolled up-healthy and tan. She's a brunette, not a redhead like me, so her skin always turns-turned golden brown whenever she went out in the sun. She looked like one of the models you see in commercials for Caribbean cruises."

  "And?"

  "She came in for a while. We sat down and talked." Deanna Meadows frowned. "I guess I'm naive. I thought maybe she had changed. I hoped she had done the same thing I did-that she had grown up and become a responsible adult. But she hadn't. She said her boyfriend-she called him Gabby or Gebby-something like that-had just given her a new car, one of those little Cadillac convertibles. White and black with a white leather interior. Anyway, she had decided to take the car out for a spin and look me up while she was at it
. I still don't know how she found me."

  Jacek leaned forward in his chair. "Was Gabby or Gebby the boyfriend's first or last name?" he asked.

  Deanna frowned. "I don't know. I don't think she ever said. I did ask her if she and her boyfriend were, like, engaged or something. She just laughed and said she'd never marry him because he was too old for her."

  "Did she tell you anything else about him?"

  "Not really, because she didn't stay for very long after that. And I was glad when she left. I didn't like being around her. It was almost like getting over being sick and then having a relapse. I felt like the whole time she was here she was making fun of everything I stood for and believed in. I think that's how my father must have felt, too, that time in the car."

  Deanna Meadows started crying again. For the next few minutes, there was nothing for Jacek or me to do until Deanna Meadows got herself back under control.

  "It's so hard to understand," she said finally, when she could talk again. "I loved her once. Denise was so cute when she was little. I used to like to dress her up and show her off to my friends like she was some kind of living, breathing doll. Much better than a Barbie. But then she changed, and I never knew how or why.

  "Part of me still loves her, I guess. Part of me still misses the little girl she once was, but part of me hates her, too. For what she did to my parents. For what she did to me. I think I've hated her for a long time. If she's dead, I'm sorry. At least I cry like I'm sorry, but still…"

  Once again Deanna broke off and couldn't continue. I understood. There's very little distance between love and hate, and often death obliterates the distance between the two entirely. They fuse into a paralyzing turmoil of opposing emotions, one that's almost impossible to bear.

  "So after she left your house that day, did you see her again?" Jacek asked gently.

  Deanna shook her head. "No," she said. "I never saw her again, but I told my parents where to find her. I felt like they needed to know she was okay-that their daughter wasn't lying dead in a ditch somewhere."

  Detective Jacek nodded. "That's how we found you and your mother both," he explained. "Through a letter your mother had written to Denise at the Camano Island house."

  As soon as he mentioned the word mother Deanna glanced down at her watch. "Oh, my God," she wailed. "It's late. I've got to go get dressed and put on some makeup."

  "Just a couple more questions, if you don't mind," Detective Jacek said. "When Denise was here, did she say anything more that you can remember about her boyfriend?"

  "No, not really. Just that he had plenty of money and that he was willing to spend it on her."

  "Would your sister have been involved in something illegal?" Jacek asked.

  "Of course," Deanna answered at once. "Prostitution is illegal, isn't it? At least most places."

  "I mean besides that. It looks as though her house may have been searched before it was burned, as though someone was looking for something."

  "You mean like drugs?" Deanna asked.

  "Possibly," Jacek answered.

  Deanna drew a sharp breath. "The guy on the TV news said something about a ‘torture killing.'" Deanna's tear-reddened eyes focused directly on Jacek's. "What exactly does that mean?"

  Detective Jacek sighed. "I'm sorry that turned up on the news. It wasn't supposed to."

  "Are you saying someone tortured her because they wanted her to tell them where something was hidden, like cocaine or something?"

  "That's one possibility," Jacek said. "Whatever the killer was looking for, either your sister knew where it was or she didn't. Either she told them or she didn't. We can't tell which."

  "But even if she did know where and what it was, even if she told them where to find it, whoever it was still went ahead and killed her anyway."

  "Yes," Detective Jacek agreed. "That's also possible."

  "You said ‘they.' Do you think there was more than one?"

  "No. Not necessarily. That's just a manner of speaking. He. She. They."

  Deanna Meadows leaned forward in her chair, her eyes searching Detective Jacek's face. "Tell me," she said. "Exactly how bad is it? I need to know so I can tell my parents so they can be prepared."

  Detective Jacek put down his coffee cup and stood up. "It's pretty bad, Mrs. Meadows," he answered. "If I were you, I'd tell your folks to plan on a closed-casket service."

  The statement was simple, brief, and to the point, but it answered the question. It told Deanna Meadows what she needed to know.

  I had to give Stan Jacek plenty of credit for the diplomatic way he pulled that one off. I don't think I could have handled it better myself.

  12

  Before Stan and I finally left Deanna Meadows' driveway in Fairwood, Detective Jacek made arrangements to come back later in the afternoon to talk to her parents, John and Ellen Whitney, and to pick up Denise Whitney's dental records.

  After putting in an all-nighter, both Stan and I were running out of steam. We didn't talk much as we drove back down off the plateau. When he suggested a lunch stop in Renton, it sounded like a good idea to me.

  The place he chose was one of those cutesy-pie named-but-faceless joints that nowadays seem to litter freeway off-ramps everywhere. They're part of what I call the continuing Dennyfication of America.

  Going from one of those standardized chains to another, it's impossible to tell them apart. Only the overhead signs outside are different. Inside they're all laid out in exactly the same manner. All the interiors look as though they were designed by the same silk-flower-crazed, California-based interior designer. The restaurants come complete with identical wood-grain Formica booths, colorful see-and-eat picture menus, and limp, half-cooked hash-brown potatoes.

  One bite of my leathery hamburger threw me into a fit of nostalgia for the Doghouse. Chewing on that tough, overdone, and tasteless chunk of mystery meat made me long for one of my old eat-at-all-hours standbys-a chili dog or a grilled tuna with potato chips and pickles on the side. And remembering that reminded me of something else from the Doghouse-a guy by the name of Dirty Dick.

  He was one of the old band of Doghouse regulars. To the outside world, that group constituted an oddball collection from all walks of life, but inside the darkened bar and gathered around the organ, they formed an informal, tightly knit choral society.

  Dirty Dick was one of the sing-along songfest directors. Each person had his or her own signature song; his own particular number. Dirty Dick's perennial favorite was a bawdy, fun tune called "Aunt Clara."

  It had been months since I last heard it, but with a little mental prodding, the words gradually surfaced. "Aunt Clara" is the story of one of those old-time "fallen women." When caught in the act, Aunt Clara is driven out of town in disgrace. While everyone back home predicts a sorrowful, shameful end, Clara heads off for France, where she lives happily ever after and marries far above her station, not once but several times. Four dukes and a baron and maybe even an earl. I'm not absolutely sure about the earl part because I'm not all that good on lyrics. Near as I recall, the chorus goes something like this:

  We never mention Aunt Clara, her picture is turned to the wall.

  She lives on the French Riviera.

  Mother says she is dead to us all.

  It wasn't much of a stretch for me to make the mental leap from good old Aunt Clara to Denise Whitney. I wondered if a grieving John and Ellen Whitney had turned their younger daughter's picture to the wall. More likely, they still thought of her the same way Deanna did-as a beautiful, bright child who had nonetheless turned out badly and for no discernible reason.

  A silent Stan Jacek was also lost in thought as he systematically forked his way through a slab of particle-board ground beef. He had ordered meat loaf, but the food on his plate bore little resemblance to that displayed on the colorfully illustrated menu.

  "Denise Whitney reminds me of ‘Aunt Clara,'" I said between bites. Not privy to my meandering stream of consciousness, Stan Jacek assumed I wa
s talking about a real person.

  "Too bad," he said. "I guess everybody has a kook or two hiding in the family closet. My first cousin Jim is undergoing sex-change therapy. As far as my aunt and uncle are concerned, he could just as well be dead."

  "Dead's permanent," I said.

  "According to Jimmy-that's what he/she wants us to call him now-so's the operation. But don't tell me, tell my uncle. What's this about your aunt?"

  Stan Jacek was talking real stuff. I felt foolish admitting to him that I didn't have an Aunt Clara at all, and that I was really referring to the heroine of a barroom ditty. When I finished telling him the whole story, though, Stan Jacek agreed with me.

  "I can see why you thought of it," he said. "Clara and Denise do seem to have a lot in common. Except it sounds as though the song has a much happier ending."

  "That's right," I said. "I doubt Denise Whitney ever made it as far as the French Riviera."

  "Not even close."

  Jacek didn't need me hanging around while he picked up the dental records. Truth be known, I wasn't eager to talk to or meet Denise Whitney's bereaved parents. Talking to relatives of murder victims is one of the parts of this job that never gets any easier no matter how many times you do it. Parents are especially tough, no matter how old or screwed-up the children are.

  Besides, I had the legitimate excuse of needing to go back to the office and put together a paper trail. I suppose reports do serve some useful purpose. When it's time to go to court, they help reconstruct who said what to whom, and when. But most of the time, they feel like a necessary evil that makes the departmental brass feel as though their grunts are actually working.

  Sue Danielson was at her own desk when I walked by. "How'd it go?" I asked.

  For an answer, she handed me a copy of an Identi-Kit sketch. I studied it for some time and then started to give it back.