ONCE TRAPPED

by Blake Pierce

  Morgan didn’t have any belongings to pick up in the property room, so Riley and Bill accompanied her straight out of the building.

  Morgan gasped and squinted when they stepped out of the cool interior into the hot, sunny day. But she didn’t look fazed by the heat. She looked as though she suddenly understood something.

  In a hushed, amazed voice she said …

  “I’m free. And I’m innocent.”

  Riley realized Morgan had just grasped that fact for the first time.

  As the three of them walked toward the car, Riley thought about the real killer.

  He was out there somewhere, enjoying the same freedom, breathing the same air, looking at the same sunlight, and he was getting ready to kill again …

  Unless we find him and stop him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Riley felt an unpleasant twinge of déjà vu as she stopped the car in front of the Farrell mansion. The last time she’d been here was to interview Andrew Farrell himself. It hadn’t been an enjoyable experience.

  And now he’s dead, Riley reminded herself.

  “I’d forgotten how big this place is,” Bill commented, gazing at the building’s impressive arches and columns.

  “You can just park the car here in the drive,” Morgan said from the back seat. She sounded tired, as though she’d lost the enthusiasm she’d displayed outside the jail.

  At the front door, they were greeted by a tall, lean butler. Riley vaguely remembered him from when she’d been here in February. He’d been cold and officious back then, but now a warm smile spread across his face.

  He took Morgan by the hand. “I’m so pleased to see you, madam. I was afraid you might not be coming here again.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Maurice,” Morgan said, giving him a small kiss on the cheek.

  Maurice said, “I want you to know—I never for a moment believed that you were guilty of … you know.”

  Morgan chuckled softly.

  “How odd,” she said. “I was quite sure I was guilty.”

  Then with a glance at Riley, she added, “Luckily for me, others knew better.”

  She turned again to Maurice and said, “I won’t be here long. I’ve just come by to pick up a few things.”

  Maurice’s expression saddened, but he didn’t look surprised.

  He said to her, “I’m afraid you’ll find things here to be in a … well, disagreeable state.”

  He led Riley, Bill, and Morgan into the massive entry room with marble floors and a broad, red-carpeted staircase. The room was chaotic, with servants coming and going with boxes and various belongings.

  Huddled near the servant’s path were three men poring over a list. Riley knew who they must be—Andrew Farrell’s three sons. She remembered their father’s chiseled, aristocratic features, and his supercilious expression. The resemblance of these men to their father was unmistakable, even though their faces were weak and characterless by comparison. They all had the same unkind, selfish expression.

  Meanness runs in the family, Riley thought.

  When Maurice announced the arrival of the visitors, the men looked up from their list at Morgan. Their lips twisted into contemptuous smirks. They didn’t say a word to her.

  Morgan stopped and smiled bravely. She told Bill and Riley, “These are my husband’s three boys—Hugh, Sheldon, and Wayne.”

  Then she said to the sons in a cheerful voice, “Don’t let me trouble you. I’m here to pick up just a few things. Don’t worry, I won’t steal anything that’s not mine. You can check when I leave. Happy pillaging!”

  Although all three hastily returned to their lists, Riley could swear she could hear at least one of them snickering in gloating contempt.

  When she, Bill, and Morgan reached the hallway at the top of the stairs, Riley said cautiously to the widow …

  “I know this is difficult—but my partner and I need to have a look at the crime scene.”

  Morgan’s brave smile disappeared and she appeared to be gathering her strength.

  “Of course,” she said. “I’ll take you there.”

  They walked past double doors that Riley knew led into Andrew Farrell’s office. She’d interviewed him in there back in February.

  She shuddered as she remembered how he’d boasted about cruelly provoking his youngest son to commit suicide by shooting himself in that very office, right in front of him. He hadn’t been guilty of actual murder, but Riley had known real murderers who were less evil than Andrew Farrell.

  Such a terrible man, she thought.

  And from what Riley knew, the other victims, Julian Morse and Edwin Gray Harter, had been terrible men as well.

  It was one thing they shared in common—aside from being very rich.

  It felt a little strange to be seeking justice for three men she felt no sympathy for.

  Morgan opened a door and led them into a sitting room, and from there into a huge bedroom. Riley saw right away that there was no hint that a crime had ever been committed here. Everything was sparkling, clean, and tidy.

  Just then Riley felt Morgan’s hand on her shoulder. Then Morgan’s whole body began to slump against hers.

  She’s about to faint, Riley realized.

  “Help me with her,” Riley said to Bill.

  They each took hold of one of Morgan’s arms and led her back into the sitting room. They helped her to a chair, where they had her sit and put her head down.

  Morgan murmured in a whimper, “I must have done it. If not me, then who … ?”

  Riley murmured back, “You’re innocent, Morgan. You didn’t kill anybody.”

  Noticing the confused look on Bill’s face, Riley whispered to him, “She’s flashing back to the murder. She’s still trying to grasp the fact that she’s innocent.”

  Bill nodded.

  Riley and Bill stood in front of Morgan for a few moments until she was strong enough to lift her head.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think … I can’t go in there.”

  “You don’t have to,” Riley said.

  A short silence fell.

  Then Morgan said, “I still want to get some of my things.”

  As she rose shakily to her feet, Riley took her arm again.

  “I’ll go with you,” Riley said.

  “You don’t have to,” Morgan said.

  Yes, I do, Riley thought.

  The woman was obviously too fragile to go anywhere in this house alone.

  Bill said to Riley, “Go ahead. I’ll take care of things here.”

  Riley wished she could stay and examine the crime scene with Bill. But she knew that he was as likely to uncover any evidence as she was.

  She helped the still-shaky Morgan get up and go back into the hallway. They continued down the wide hall and around a corner to Morgan’s own rooms.

  *

  Bill stood looking around the master bedroom for a few moments. The space was vast, and everything in it was gold and white, including the curtains draped around a huge canopied bed.

  So that’s where the man died, he thought. Stabbed to death among his silken sheets and pillows.

  As he looked around the room, Bill began to feel an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach. He knew it wasn’t because a murder had taken place here. He’d seen far too many crime scenes to be fazed by that.

  Instead, it was a sense of disgust at the idea that anyone had ever lived here—had actually slept here.

  No actual flesh-and-blood human being, anyway, Bill thought.

  Like the rest of the house, the bedroom struck Bill as a setting where only some kind of automaton, an elaborate wind-up replica of a person, could really belong.

  What kind of guy would ever feel comfortable here? he wondered.

  How could he get any sleep?

  The décor gave Bill a distinct hint about Andrew Farrell’s personality.

  Sleep wasn’t what this room was all about. Comfort wasn’t even what this whole house was all about.


  The point was to be surrounded by as much proof of wealth as possible. For a man like this, ostentation substituted for comfort.

  From what Bill had learned about the case so far, he thought Andrew Farrell probably didn’t sleep much anyhow.

  And apparently he didn’t let the people who were closest to him get much sleep either.

  He liked to keep people awake, exhausted, and off-balance.

  As Bill walked farther into the room, he asked himself …

  What exactly am I looking for?

  Of course, he was sure he’d know it when he found it.

  Although the police had surely examined the room carefully right after the murder, he knew that local cops often missed something—some sort of clue that a seasoned FBI agent like himself would pick up on.

  He had a hunch that that was true right here and now …

  All I’ve got to do is look.

  *

  Riley and Morgan continued on into Morgan’s own private bedroom—a huge and luxurious room by Riley’s standards, but noticeably smaller and more modest than Andrew Farrell’s master suite. Like the rest of the house, the room was both fancy and impersonal, with everything arranged as if for a magazine photo.

  Morgan seemed to have regained her resolve.

  “The things I want are in here,” she said, heading straight for a pair of doors. When Morgan swung the doors open, Riley almost gasped aloud.

  The closet was a separate room by itself—as big as Riley’s own bedroom. It was filled with a vast array of hanging outfits, and also with shelves, cabinets, and mirrors. In the center was a table with chairs.

  Riley stood watching as Morgan began to finger various items of clothing.

  Morgan said, “It’s strange—to think that all this, at least, belongs to me. Until now, I’d always thought of everything in here as his property, as if I were only borrowing it. I guess that’s because I always thought of myself as his property, just some sort of mannequin to show off all these wonderful clothes.”

  Riley’s mind boggled at the sheer quantity of the wardrobe. But she understood what Morgan was telling her: a mannequin owns nothing. But now this woman who had played the mannequin role owned quite a lot of things.

  She said, “Morgan, how are you going to move all of this? You’ll need a van or a truck or …”

  “Oh, no,” Morgan said with a slight laugh. “I’ll be selective. I don’t want to take much. Andrew’s sons can sell the rest of it off if they like. The truth is, I’ll be glad to see the last of most of it. I always had to dress according to Andrew’s taste, not my own, and there’s not much here that I actually like. It’ll be strange, though, deciding such things for myself again. I’d almost forgotten what that was like.”

  Morgan found a large wheeled suitcase and set it open on the table. As she started to put things into it, Riley gently asked her questions about her husband. Had he spent any time in Birmingham? Did he play golf in Monarch? Did Morgan know of any connection between Andrew and the other two victims?

  Morgan brushed off all these questions and finally said …

  “Honestly, why would you expect me to know anything about him? He never told me much, and the truth is, I never wanted to know much. I certainly never asked him a lot of questions. I tried to attract his attention as little as possible. My life was always better when he left me alone.”

  Morgan finished filling the suitcase with some of the simpler outfits, several jackets, and a few pairs of shoes. Then she walked over to a large safe and punched in the combination to open it.

  Inside was an astonishing array of jewelry.

  Morgan laughed aloud and said, “God, I can’t believe I used to wear this stuff! So garish and vulgar! And Andrew always acted like he was being so generous for buying it for me, and I did my best to act grateful. Well, it is mine and it would sell for quick cash if I wind up needing it—enough to support me for a while.”

  Without even looking them over, she scooped up a handful of valuables and dropped them into a pocket of the suitcase. Riley’s mind boggled at the thought of how much even that handful must be worth.

  Enough to buy a house, I bet, she thought.

  Morgan closed up the suitcase, then turned slowly around. Her expression was haunted as she gazed about the room.

  Then she stood in front of a full-length mirror, looking at her reflection.

  “It’s over,” she whispered to her reflection. “It’s all over.”

  Riley sensed a world of ambivalent meaning in those words. A lot of things were over for Morgan Farrell—the tyranny of her terrible marriage, her husband’s emotional and physical abuse, the duty to serve as his perfect toy, but also her life of luxury and security.

  She was truly on her own now.

  And Riley couldn’t help but wonder …

  Is she ready for this?

  Does she even have any idea of how to live on her own?

  Riley felt pretty sure that Morgan had lived a life of privilege for a long time. Her marriage had been just another chapter of all that. Now Morgan was leaving with quite a lot in the way of material goods—the returns from investment funds as well as the money the jewelry must be worth. Riley could imagine living the rest of her own life off that kind of money. Or at least sending her girls to a really good college.

  But how well would Morgan manage?

  Riley knew that Morgan had been a well-known model before her marriage. How easy would it be for her to get back into that scene if she wanted to? If she couldn’t, how long would even a small fortune last her?

  Riley’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Bill’s voice calling from the bedroom.

  “Hey, Riley—are you in here somewhere?”

  Riley could hear a note of excitement in his voice.

  “Yeah,” Riley called back. “Did you find anything?”

  “I think so,” Bill said. “Come have a look.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Riley felt her heart quicken as she hurried out of the enormous closet to meet Bill. He was standing in the bedroom doorway, holding something in his hand.

  “What have you got?” she asked.

  “This,” Bill said. “I checked the rest of the room, but it’s been polished clean. No prints.”

  He handed her a simple ashtray made of blue-gray glass. In its bottom was the silver image of a man holding a spear in one raised hand. She recognized the Roman god Vulcan, but she was puzzled by the circle of scantily clad women dancing around the silver man.

  “Where did you find it?” she asked.

  “In plain sight,” Bill said, smiling. “Sitting on a dresser right beside a Fabergé egg.”

  Morgan had come out of her wardrobe closet and was standing beside Riley. Her expression was puzzled as she looked at the object that Riley held.

  “I don’t understand,” Morgan said. “Is this important?”

  “Maybe so,” Riley said to her.

  “But it’s just an ashtray,” Morgan said.

  Riley knew perfectly well why Bill had picked it up, but she let him explain.

  “Precisely. Just an ordinary glass ashtray sitting next to a Fabergé egg and surrounded by all kinds of other expensive objects. Tell me, Ms. Farrell—was your husband the kind of man who’d normally keep something like this among a collection of priceless things?”

  Morgan squinted at the ashtray. “Why, no,” she replied. “Now that you mention it, I don’t suppose so.”

  “Do you have any idea where it came from?” Riley asked.

  “No. It isn’t an antique and it doesn’t look like any kind of collector’s item. I suppose it could be from any ordinary store.”

  Riley couldn’t picture either of the Farrells shopping at an “ordinary store.” And yet, the ashtray was here, among their luxurious belongings. It was a thing of no value, except for whatever special significance it had to Andrew Farrell. Or to the killer. The thing wouldn’t have been where Bill found it unless it meant so
mething to somebody.

  She wasn’t surprised, though, that the police had apparently never noticed it. As far as they were concerned, this was just another object in a house full of objects.

  She was glad Bill’s keen eye had spotted the incongruity.

  Bill said, “But there’s nothing on it to say where it came from. No message. No trademark.”

  Riley pointed to the central image and said, “Well, I can tell you about him—that’s a huge statue of Vulcan that stands on a hill in Birmingham.”

  Bill’s eyes widened.

  “Birmingham!” he said. “And the first murder was in Birmingham.”

  Riley asked Morgan, “Does this mean anything at all to you?”

  Morgan shook her head silently. Riley noticed that she was slumping, and her face again showed that look of numb exhaustion.

  Riley said to her, “Maybe we should get you out of here.”

  Morgan nodded and said, “Yes, if that’s OK with you. I’ve got everything I need … everything I’ll ever want from this place.”

  Bill wheeled her big suitcase out of the closet, and Morgan led them to the freight elevator. When they reached the first floor, they all made their way back through the front room. Andrew Farrell’s sons were nowhere in sight. Riley guessed they were pillaging elsewhere in the mansion.

  Maurice the butler hurried toward them, relieved Bill of the suitcase, and took it all the way out to the car for them.

  Once the suitcase was loaded into the car, Riley pulled the glass ashtray out of her bag and showed it to him.

  “Do you know what this is?” she asked.

  The butler shook his head.

  “My partner found it in the master bedroom.”

  With a haughty smirk, Maurice replied, “I can assure you, it was not part of the décor.”

  “But do you know where it came from?”

  “I do not,” Maurice snapped. Then he softened a bit. “The truth is that I very seldom went to … the master’s quarters. No one was allowed to disturb anything there. Of course the day maids cleaned the room, but they have all been let go.”

  “All right,” Riley said. “It’s probably nothing. I’ll get back in touch with you if I need to contact them.”