“How?” Carolyn asked. “By blaming it on you?”
He ignored her question, his story spilling out as if he hadn’t heard her. “Thomas was under a great deal of stress at the time. One of his patients had accused him of drugging her and forcing her to have sex with him. He settled out of court, but the board yanked his license to practice psychiatry.”
“Your twin was a psychiatrist?” Carolyn said, his story beginning to have a ring of authenticity. Marcus looked straight at her without blinking. His statements seemed spontaneous, and there was no degree of hesitation or variations. He seemed anxious over his predicament, but fairly calm when talking about his brother. She had to remind herself that the person he was so confidently describing could be himself.
“Yes,” Marcus said. “He swore he was innocent, but the attorneys for his malpractice insurance didn’t want to take a chance they might lose if the case went to trial. Another woman had accused him of misconduct the year before. I’d already relocated to California when this was going on, so I heard most of this from Thomas. How much of it is true, I can’t tell you. After that, he disappeared. I was afraid something had happened to him. To be honest, I was somewhat relieved when he surfaced in Ventura.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“He was with you last night,” Marcus said, his eyes sparking with anger. “There’s no telling where he is now. I haven’t talked to him in fourteen years. I have no idea where his permanent residence is, or if he even has one. He’s like a shadow. I know he’s around when he pulls stunts like he did with you. Trying to find him would have been a waste of time. Thomas hates me. The last time I talked to him, we fought over money.”
At this point, Carolyn didn’t know what to believe. Hank and Mary must think he was lying through his teeth. But they didn’t know what she knew. The man she’d been with last night had been crude and aggressive, nothing at all like the person sitting at the table only a few feet away. Now that she thought about it, even the voice inflections were different, and Marcus’s hair was slightly longer. When a person looked exactly the same, your mind tricked you and insignificant details frequently went unnoticed. “How does Thomas support himself? You say he’s been banned from practicing psychiatry?”
“I don’t know,” he told her, staring down at the table. “Everything went to worms between us when our father died. He was a wealthy man, and my brother anticipated inheriting half of the estate. It didn’t work out way, and Thomas was furious. I got the bulk of the estate, outside of the money my father earmarked for various charities. Dad had another reason for doing what he did, besides what happened with Iris, although I personally think he carried it to an extreme.”
“How’s that?” Carolyn asked.
“Thomas was smart, but he was also wild, always getting into trouble,” Marcus told her. “While he was attending medical school, he spent weekends gambling in Atlantic City. We were amazed when he graduated and passed the boards. I was certain he’d found a way to cheat, or had someone else take the exams for him.” He paused and took a breath. “That’s not the point. He stole about twenty grand from my father. By the time my father realized what had happened, Thomas had lost all the money at the tables.” He let out a long sigh. “Dad left my brother twenty thousand in his will, the same amount he’d stolen. I might have evened the score, but my father had drafted specific language that prevented me from doing so. If I gave a dime to Thomas, I forfeited my share of the estate. Needless to say, it was a bitter pill for my brother to swallow. Later, I heard he made a killing in the stock market investing in tech stocks.” He smiled weakly. “Sometimes the right gamble pays off.”
The door opened, and Hank escorted a distinguished-looking middle-aged man in a dark suit into the room. The man walked over and plunked his briefcase down on the table, then took a seat beside his client. “Fred Cusack, attorney at law,” he said, glancing up Carolyn. “Are you a detective, too?”
“No,” she said, introducing herself. “I’m a probation officer, but I’m not here in an official capacity. Marcus and I have been seeing each other. Would you like me to leave now?”
“No,” Marcus said, glancing over at Cusack. “She knows the truth. I want her to stay.”
Mary burst into the room, a computer printout in her hand. She looked over at Hank and shook her head. The detective asked, “Do you have a twin brother, Mr. Wright?”
“You don’t have to answer that,” Cusack advised him.
“I have nothing to hide,” Marcus told him. “Yes, I do. I assume you were eavesdropping on my conversation with Carolyn. That’s a one-way glass, isn’t it?”
Mary checked the paper in her hand, then asked, “Mr. Wright, were you born at St. Andrew’s Hospital in Manhattan on August 11, 1960?”
“That’s correct,” Marcus said, relieved.
“According to the Bureau of Vital Statistics, you don’t have a twin brother. The only birth recorded to a Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Wright was you. You’re Marcus Raymond Wright, aren’t you? That’s the name on your driver’s license.”
“There has to be a mistake,” Marcus said, leaping to his feet. “I swear I have a twin. I’m not making this up, for God’s sake. Ask Carolyn, she met him. She was with him on at least two occasions when he passed himself off as me.”
All eyes turned to Carolyn. “I’m not certain,” she said, clasping and unclasping her sweaty hands. “I did notice different personality traits. One instance was last evening, and another the first day I met him.” How could she keep Marcus from seeing how devastated she was? She wanted desperately to believe him, but if he had a twin brother, the birth would have been recorded. Even in the midst of the present chaos, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. For the first time in her career, she felt compassion for a man who apparently was a murderer. There was such a sensitive, forthright look in his eyes. She cupped her hand over her mouth, her eyes darting to Mary, then to Hank. The two detectives were watching her composure disintegrate. “I have to get some air,” she said, the small room closing in on her.
“Please,” Marcus said. “Don’t leave, Carolyn. You know these people. You understand how the system works. Outside of a few traffic tickets, I’ve never had any contact with the police.”
Mary and Hank remained silent. Carolyn wasn’t certain if they thought she was putting on an act or they were simply using her. If they were, what they were doing was cruel. Then again, Lisa Sheppard and her grandmother were dead. Their subject was responding to only one person. She slowly lowered herself into a chair. “Isn’t there anyone who can substantiate your brother’s existence?”
“I have no other siblings,” Marcus said. “For all I know, my mother may be dead. Before he died, Dad told me she’d remarried, but since I had no desire to see her, he didn’t tell me anything else. Either find my mother or call my brother’s former fiancée. Her name is April Simons. Her father was the state senator of New York at one time. I read that he passed away recently, but you should be able to track down his daughter.”
“Cut the bullshit,” Hank said, placing his palms on the table and leaning close to Marcus’s face. “Did you really think you could put something over on us? What’s in that safety deposit box at the bank? And who were those goons who were protecting you?”
“I told you, my company is a subcontractor for the military,” Marcus said, a line of perspiration appearing on his forehead. “We write software. As a precaution, the codes we’re not actively working on are kept in the vault at the bank. We do this in case someone manages to hack into our system or burglarizes our office. During transport, my security team is always nearby. I can’t divulge the details of my work. All I can tell you is it’s a matter of national security that it’s kept out of the wrong hands.”
“Do you know why you’re sitting here?” Hank said, his shoulder twitching with nervous energy. “It’s not because of codes or whatever you do for a living. You killed Lisa Sheppard, then flew to St. Louis and murdered her gran
dmother, making it look like a suicide. You tried to make us believe Carl Holden was responsible. When he got out of hand, you ran him down with your car. Why don’t you come clean? If you cooperate, we may be able to talk the DA into cutting a deal for life in prison. If not, you’re looking at the death penalty.”
“My client refuses to answer any more questions,” Cusack said, standing and placing his hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “Are you prepared to arrest him, detectives?”
Hank and Mary exchanged tense glances.
“That’s what I thought,” Cusack said, picking up his briefcase and turning to Marcus. “You’re free to leave.”
CHAPTER 38
Friday, October 20—4:35 P.M.
Kathleen had checked into Embassy Suites Hotel in Los Angeles on her way to San Diego, her new gun tucked inside her pink lizard tote. After four drinks in the bar, she’d gone upstairs to her room and promptly passed out. She was awakened by a call on her cell phone. Not recognizing the caller’s number, she thought it might be a call for Dean. Lowering her voice to sound like him, she said, “Hello.”
“Matthew, dude. This is Resare. I didn’t think you had this number anymore. I take you off the map, then you hang me out to dry. We’re not done. We’ve got to settle up on the last project I did for you.”
Kathleen bolted upright. Turning on the light, she realized this might be the call she’d been waiting for. “Hi, this is Matthew Sheppard’s accountant. I handle all his affairs when he’s traveling. Can I help you?”
“I haven’t heard of you before. Are you really his accountant? You write the checks, huh? I thought you were Matthew.”
“Do you have an outstanding invoice with Mr. Sheppard?”
“Yeah,” Resare said, “but I should probably talk to the man myself. It’s kind of personal, know what I mean? We usually communicate electronically, but he hasn’t been responding to my e-mails.”
“I see,” Kathleen said. “Mr. Sheppard has another number for his personal business. Do you have it?”
“What is it?”
“I’m not authorized to tell you. I can only confirm if you have the right number.”
“Cloak and dagger,” Resare said, laughing. “That’s the man I love. Let me give it to you.”
Kathleen grabbed a pen and jotted down the number on a hotel notepad. “Can you repeat that, please? You may have been calling the wrong number.” Once she was certain she had it, she said, “I’m sorry, I was mistaken. The number you have is correct after all. All I can tell you is to keep calling, unless you want me to take care of it for you. For budgeting purposes, how much does he owe you?”
“Your man owes me fifty grand,” he said, a sharper edge in his voice. “Tell him if he doesn’t get in touch with me, he’s going to run into some major problems. I’ve called that number and no one answers.”
“He should be calling in any time now,” Kathleen said. “Maybe it would be better if you give me your number. That way, I can make certain he calls you.”
The man rattled off a number, then told her, “Giving the runaround to Resare is not a smart thing to do. I’ll give Matthew twenty-four hours before I cut off his credit cards. In another twenty-four, I’ll start selling off his assets.”
Kathleen hung up and immediately dialed the number Resare had given her. When she heard Dean’s voice, she slid off the side of the bed. “Hello, sweetheart, do you know who this is?”
“Kathleen!” he said. “How did you get this number?”
A fiery rage coursed through her veins. If she started screaming at him, though, he would hang up and she would have accomplished nothing. She was already on the floor, she decided, so she might as well grovel. It was the only way to get to Dean. “I’m surviving. It’s been hard without you. I know I was wrong now, honey. I should have never accused you of having an affair. Isn’t there some way we can save our marriage?”
She heard a long sigh on the other end of the line. “Anything is possible.”
“I want to see you. Where are you?”
“Southern California,” Dean said. “Are you at home?”
“No,” Kathleen said. “I’m visiting a friend in LA. By the way, Resare called and said if you don’t pay him fifty thousand dollars, he’s going to start selling off your assets.”
When several moments passed without a response, she knew he’d taken the bait. “Are you there, Dean?” she said. “This man sounded dangerous. He told me all these crazy things about you. How you lived in San Diego under the name of Matthew Sheppard. Why don’t we meet somewhere so you can tell me all about it. It sounds fascinating.”
“Ah, Resare,” Dean said. “Maybe we should talk, Kathleen. I have a place in Santa Rosa, on the outskirts of Ventura. Call me when you get close, and I’ll give you directions.”
Kathleen reached into her bag and cradled the cold steel of the revolver. Was he luring her somewhere so he could finish what he’d started in Carmel? Her father had served in Vietnam. He’d taught her that surprise was the best way to defeat your enemy. “All you have to do is give me the address, darling. I used to be a Realtor before that horrible man broke into our house and tried to kill me. I can find anything.”
Kathleen had no intention of waltzing up to the front door and confronting Dean. Both of them knew the cordial phone conversation was only a front for their true intentions. He wanted to finish what he’d started; she wanted him dead.
By the time she’d battled rush-hour traffic and reached Santa Rosa, it was after seven. She found the street, then a wooden mailbox with the address Dean had given her. About a mile down, she parked the car and got out, zipping up her jacket.
The sweet smell of oranges filled the air, and she could hear insects chirping as she walked into a dense orchard. Dean had picked an idyllic place to establish his new life. Kathleen wondered if her money had paid for it. Even if he hadn’t tried to kill her, and she was certain he had, he deserved to die for stealing from her and leaving her alone after suffering such a horrendous ordeal.
Dean’s perfect world was about to be shattered by a bullet.
Moving branches aside, Kathleen stumbled on the uneven ground and fell. Dusting herself off, she got back on her feet and continued toward the large, lighted house in the distance.
When she made it to the spot where the orchard stopped and the yard began, she was able to make out the silhouette of a person inside one of the windows. Recognizing Dean’s profile, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the revolver. Then she put the gun back. Her chances of landing a long-distance fatal shot through a glass window were too small. There had to be a better way. Also, killing him without seeing his face when she pulled the trigger wouldn’t be satisfying enough.
Retrieving her phone from the other pocket of her jacket, she hit Redial. “Dean, I’m outside your house.”
“Did you ring the doorbell?” he asked. “I didn’t hear anything. Is something wrong?”
“I don’t feel comfortable,” Kathleen responded in a soft voice. “Why don’t we meet somewhere else?”
“It’s okay, baby,” Dean told her. “If you want, I can come outside and we can take a walk. It’s a beautiful night. You came through the orchard, didn’t you? When you drove by, did you see two men in a parked car?”
“Yes,” she responded. “I thought they were neighbors or something.”
“They’re my private security,” he told her. “I wouldn’t hurt you with two witnesses around. They’re armed, though, and they might panic if they see someone sneaking up to my house.”
She didn’t like the way things were shaping up. “Why don’t you just call them and tell them you have a visitor?”
“You set the stage, Kathleen,” Dean said. “My visitors don’t normally come through the orchard. Why don’t you go back to your car and drive to the front of the house?”
“I don’t want to do that,” she said. “Maybe those men are cops, and you told them I’m stalking you.”
“If you w
ant to see me, you’ll have to come to the front like everyone else. Otherwise, go back where you came from.”
Things had suddenly become more challenging. It was too late to give up. She’d lived through the injuries he’d brutally inflicted and was enduring excruciating pain. Now was the time to destroy him.
“Come on, Dean,” Kathleen said. “You know I’m scared after what happened in Carmel. I drove all the way here to see you. I don’t want your people to accidentally shoot me. I’m just so confused right now. I guess I could go to the police in San Diego and ask them what they know about Matthew Sheppard. This man, Resare, seemed more than willing to talk to me. Maybe—”
“I need to throw on some clothes,” he said. “I’ll meet you out back in ten minutes.”
She had him.
Without saying good-bye, Kathleen ended the conversation. Had it been too easy to get him out of the house? What did he have planned? Shuffling back into the trees, she knew showing her face first would be suicide.
Kneeling down, she had a direct view of the back door. The porch light was on, but dim. As if Dean was blind to her intentions, he casually stepped out of the house. He looked to the right and then to the left. She saw his hands, relieved that he didn’t appear to be holding anything. She moved out of the shadows.
He turned to see the barrel of the revolver pointing at his face. “Turn around and put your hands over your head,” she said. When he turned, Kathleen saw something protruding out of the back waistband of his pants. “You fucking bastard,” she snarled, snatching the gun and hurling it into the orchard. “You were going to kill me, weren’t you?”
“Why are you here? Where’s my brother?”
“What are you talking about?” Kathleen said, circling around to his side and pressing the revolver flush against his left temple. “We’re going to take a walk. Move!”
Sullivan’s Evidence Page 38
