Cynthia Hamilton - Madeline Dawkins 02 - A High Price to Pay

by Cynthia Hamilton

  “You know, the one thing you haven’t mentioned is motive,” Mike said as he opened the passenger side door for Madeline.

  “That’s the tricky part,” she said, slipping in and fastening her seatbelt as Mike walked around to the driver’s side. Once he was seated, she continued. “Out of the four people who had the opportunity—as far as we know now—I can only see Cherie or Teresa having any reason for wanting Vivian out of the picture.”

  “Teresa because Vivian might have confronted her about the missing jewels…?” Madeline nodded. “And Cherie…because…she’s out of touch with reality…?”

  “In the year that I’ve been working with her, I’ve noticed Cherie becoming more paranoid around her mother-in-law, like she thinks Vivian was giving her son negative feedback about her while he’s out of town.”

  “Do you think she was?” Mike asked, turning right onto Carrillo Street, heading west.

  “I doubt it. I don’t think that was really Vivian’s style. She wasn’t a mean person at all. I think she actually felt sorry for Cherie. I know she didn’t approve of everything her daughter-in-law did, but there’s a big generation gap between them. Still, I think Vivian would’ve rather seen her son have a successful marriage with Cherie than go through another divorce.”

  “Where are we going, your place or mine?” Mike interrupted as they crossed the intersection at San Pascual and headed up Carrillo Hill. They were almost to the turnoff that would’ve taken them to Madeline’s house.

  For the last several hours, a long, hot soak in a bubble bath and her extra-cushiony slippers had been Madeline’s promise to herself for having survived this tragic night. But as she thought about the new security system Brian had installed earlier that day—was it really the same day?—she didn’t feel up to wrangling with the sophisticated technology in her current state of mind. She could easily envision setting off the alarm and having another encounter with Santa Barbara’s finest.

  “Your place,” she said. She tilted her head back and decided to enjoy the ride. The longer she could stay off her aching feet, the better.

  “My place it is,” Mike said, revving the engine in order to bound up the steep hill.

  “Take it easy, Andretti. I’m in no rush. I’d rather get there in one piece than not get there at all,” she teased him.

  “It’s your vehicle’s fault. It just wants to go!”

  Madeline smiled and let her mind wander back to the previous topic. “And we can forget motive as far as Teresa is concerned, because she didn’t have the opportunity. Even if she was so inclined, she had Helen in the room with her.”

  “True. And there’d be no reason for Helen to lie about being in Vivian’s room at the same time as Teresa…?

  “No,” Madeline said dismissively. “Hey, seriously, go easy on this road.” They had started the descent down the other side of the hill, on a road that was made dicier by the alternating curves.

  “I can’t slow down. I’ve got the brake pedal to the floor and nothing’s happening!” Mike said, his voice full of alarm.

  “Oh shit!” Madeline said, reflexively pushing back against the seat, feet pressed hard against the floorboards, as if somehow that would help matters. Realizing it wouldn’t, she grabbed the parking brake on Mike’s side of the armrest and pulled up on it, bracing herself. Nothing happened.

  “Oh God, oh no…” Madeline said, her voice weak with terror. In an instant, the realization of what had happened hit home. She had been thrown off her guard by all the mayhem of the last several hours; vigilance for her own safety had gone right out the window.

  “That fucking Usherwood!” Mike swore. He began to try slowing the vehicle’s descent by slaloming, which at the speed they were going, almost rolled the SUV on its side. As the headlights’ beams swung erratically, Mike saw a chance and took it.

  “Hold on, Maddie!” he warned as he cranked the wheel to the right. The SUV skidded sideways to the left. Mike held the steering wheel tight, turning it the opposite direction to straighten them out. The backend swung to the right. Mike corrected the trajectory by bringing the wheel back to the center.

  These actions took seconds, terrifyingly long seconds. But as they felt the backend on the driver’s side connect with a stationary object, the airbags inflated. The first impact did little to slow their descent. Though they couldn’t really feel it, the first obstacle was actually two objects. The airbags were already deflating when the vehicle immediately took the impact of three more similar objects. This slowed the car somewhat, though it continued to slide like it was on ice.

  They hit another grouping of something large. This reduced their speed enough so they could see which way they were pointed. It wasn’t good. They were now perpendicular to the road and could actually feel the car struggle to remain upright as gravity propelled them down the hill. They each clung to the door handles for dear life.

  The SUV continued to shift direction as it plowed across driveways and bounced over curbs. This repeated movement, which was as terrifying as it was painful, shifted the frontend of the vehicle so that it was now headed downhill, rear end first. Mike and Madeline looked at each other, their eyes wide, too scared to breathe. They felt the vehicle as it rose and then took another hit as they careened into something else. This time they could actually hear the soft crunch as one by one the objects were mowed down by the Audi. They could also tell that whatever was wedged underneath them had brought the SUV to a slow, skidding halt.

  “Are you okay, Maddie?” Mike asked, his hand reaching across the car in search of hers. It took Madeline a couple of seconds to find her voice.

  “I think so. Are you?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay.” They could hear the sounds of people yelling.

  “What did we hit?” Madeline asked. Mike could hear the threat of hysteria in her voice.

  “Trashcans,” Mike said. He sat there numbly. He couldn’t believe it had worked.

  “Trashcans?” Madeline echoed, her voice raspy as she cried with relief.

  “Yeah, trashcans.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Mike and Madeline stood on the sidewalk near the banged up Audi as they waited for the paramedics and the tow truck to arrive. The police had finally gotten everyone to go back inside their homes; the squawk of their radios continued to punctuate the stillness of the night. Madeline was shivering under the blanket that some kind resident, whose trash cans they had probably obliterated, had wrapped around her. She wasn’t really cold, just in shock.

  Despite their harrowing brush with mortality, neither of them felt there was any need for medical attention; they were sore, but nothing seemed broken. They were lucky the cops had arrived as quickly as they had, given all the excitement and need for personnel at the Alexander estate. First thing the officers on the scene did after making sure there were no fatalities or life-threatening casualties, was to put Mike through a round of sobriety tests.

  After he finally convinced them he hadn’t been drinking, he gave them Federal Agent Caulfield’s number and told Officer Cardoza to let him know Lionel Usherwood had nearly succeeded in killing them.

  “How do you figure that?” Officer Henley asked.

  “The brakes failed, both of them. Get Agent Caulfield on the line. The fiend who messed with the brake lines is one of his cases. The body that was found a few days ago at Lake Cachuma? Same guy,” Mike said. This last statement earned him the first acknowledgement of credibility he’d received so far. Both officers were now taking a greater interest in the situation. Mike took out a copy of his P.I. license and several business cards and handed them to the officers.

  “If the homeowners contact this number, we can provide them with Ms. Dawkins’ insurance info.” In addition to eight garbage cans, the Audi had also taken out two mailboxes and a curbside tree. “But in the meantime, I think you should also call Detective Slovitch, since he’s awar
e of the threats on my partner’s life.”

  “Detective Slovitch is involved in a homicide in Montecito,” Officer Cardoza informed them.

  “We know, we just came from there,” Madeline said, surprising everyone. Those were the first words she’d uttered since the police arrived.

  “I’m going to make those calls,” Officer Henley said to his partner, consulting his pad for Agent Caulfield’s number.

  The city maintenance crew had just started picking up the debris that was strewn in a wide swath across the road and sidewalks when Detective Slovitch arrived on the scene. Traffic, what little there was at that late hour, had been rerouted through the side streets, and hazard lights and florescent orange cones created a temporary holding area for Mike and Madeline.

  “It had to have been Usherwood’s doing,” Mike said as Detective Slovitch approached. Slovitch shined his flashlight up and down the area, getting a sense of what had taken place. “The brake lines must’ve been tampered with.”

  “That’s what I heard.” Turning to Madeline, Slovitch asked, “This was the same car you had at the Alexander property this evening?” Madeline nodded. “Was it there all day?”

  “No, I went home around 3:00 to get ready for the event and get acquainted with my new security system.” Madeline laughed humorlessly at the wasted effort.

  “And the brakes didn’t seem soft to you on the drive back to Montecito?”

  “No.” The detective and the two P.I.s quickly connected the dots.

  “So you stopped somewhere on your way home…” Slovitch guessed. Madeline and Mike looked at each other as they nodded.

  “Henry’s Hole,” Mike said. “We were there about forty-five, fifty minutes.” Mike looked to Madeline for confirmation, not only for the time frame but the opportunity. Slovitch motioned for one of the patrolmen.

  “I want a forensics team to go over this vehicle. In addition to the brakes, have them scan it for a tracking device.”

  “Got it,” Officer Cardoza said. “What about these folks? You want us to take them home?” This sounded like an excellent idea to Madeline, but before she could voice her opinion, Agent Caulfield pulled up next to them. He was barely out of the car when Mike’s famous temper blew.

  “So now you probably think she cut her own brake lines in an effort to get someone’s attention,” he taunted Caulfield. “You think she maybe over-played her hand a little this time? I mean, after all, we almost got killed.”

  Agent Caulfield’s expression and body language said loud and clear he didn’t take that kind of crap from anyone but his superiors, and certainly not from a couple private dicks.

  “Tone it down, Delaney, or I’ll have you sitting on your hands in federal custody.”

  Mike’s reaction was so swift, only Madeline caught it in time. The blanket fell from her shoulders as soon as he threw the strike. She blocked it—blocked it and stopped his attack with a well-aimed strike of her own that she pulled a centimeter from Mike’s temple. After staring him into submission, she turned to face the FBI agent, whose hand rested on the handle of his pistol.

  “You even think of doing something like that again Delaney, and you will be charged with attempted assault on a federal agent,” Caulfield threatened.

  “Can you really blame a man for being furious that the ineptitude and lack of concern on the part of the ‘federal government’ almost cost us our lives? Do you think the only people in this country who rate protection by the ‘federal government’ are convicts that rat out other convicts?”

  “Ms. Dawkins—”

  “Take a look around you, Agent Caulfield. Do you not recognize a potentially deadly scenario that was avoided by the quick reflexes of the man who at this moment thinks the federal government is basically using me for bait?” Madeline asked scornfully, her eyes riveted to the agent’s.

  “And you know what the most pathetic part of all this is? Lionel Usherwood has been tiptoeing in front of your men and they’re just too damned blind to see it. All I can say is I’m sure glad I have my own protection, because so far law enforcement has really let me down.”

  Madeline let her words sink in before turning her back on the agent. Officer Cardoza motioned for her and Mike to come with him. He let them in the backseat of the cruiser and got in the front. Officer Henley got Mike’s address and made a U-turn, heading in the direction of Shoreline Drive.

  Mike put his arm around Madeline, who was now shivering with cold and contempt. At least I’m not scared out of my mind anymore, she thought, though as soon as she realized this, the memory of who had unleashed their recent terror soon filled her mind with dread. Dread and a spark of defiance.

  If we have to fight this war by ourselves, then that’s what we’re going to do, she vowed to herself, moving in closer to Mike, her one true ally, the only person she could really count on.

  Detective Slovitch handed Madeline and Mike each a Styrofoam cup of hot, weak coffee. He sat down opposite them in the interview room and took of sip from his mug, then leaned back in his chair, rocking almost imperceptibly as he gathered his thoughts.

  Neither Madeline nor Mike looked very happy about being there. They both seemed stiff and sore when they came in, no doubt due to their roller coaster ride the night before. Even so, Madeline comported herself in a professional, neutral manner, and looked not much worse for wear.

  The same couldn’t exactly be said about Mike. He was making no attempt to hide his irritation. He was radiating aggression, something Slovitch normally wouldn’t tolerate. But in this case, the detective was willing to cut him a little slack. They were both on the same side, though Slovitch had the power of the law behind him and the authority to use it. If Mike couldn’t control his temper, then Slovitch would have him removed from the premises.

  “How is forensics coming along with the car?” Mike asked. He’d wasted enough time sitting on his hands at Detective Slovitch’s leisure. His time could be better spent running down various lines of inquiry, which he was anxious to get started on.

  “I don’t know,” Slovitch answered. “Caulfield had it taken down to the FBI lab in L.A.”

  “Why?” Mike didn’t bother to hide his impatience. “Isn’t that just going to take longer? We need answers now. The Bureau has already shown us where Madeline rates in their book.”

  “Actually, they outrank us, and since this attempted murder may be connected with one of their cases, it falls under their jurisdiction. We’ll be playing second fiddle if it turns out that the brake lines were deliberately tampered with.” Mike’s jaw tightened at the roundabout suggestion that their brush with death might be something other than intentional.

  “Then what are we doing here?” Mike asked angrily.

  “I assume you’re here in your capacity as chauffeur,” Slovitch replied, eyeing Mike coldly. “Ms. Dawkins is here because of the murder at the Alexander estate. You can have a seat outside if all this is boring you. But don’t go too far. Agent Caulfield should be here soon to discuss your case.” Mike let out a peeved snort, but kept his temper in check for Madeline’s benefit.

  “Have you heard back from the coroner?” Madeline asked, trying to initiate a more constructive dialog.

  “Not yet, but he said we should have something soon…” Before he could finish the sentence, Detective Eames opened the door and handed the autopsy report to his partner. “We’re about to get started,” Eames said.

  “I’ll be right there,” Slovitch replied, taking a minute to peruse the coroner’s findings.

  “Well, it was definitely death by strangulation,” he said at length.

  “Does he have an idea what was used?” Madeline asked.

  “I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you at this time,” he said, laying the report face down on the table. Madeline glanced nonchalantly at Mike. He had predicted she would be treated the same as everyone else who’
d had opportunity and means.

  “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be against your professional input, but in this case it’s not really appropriate, seeing as how you haven’t been eliminated as a potential suspect yet.”

  “I see,” Madeline said.

  “According to the surveillance tapes, there was a fourteen-minute gap between the time you reached the second floor landing and the time you called 911.”

  “Yes, that appears to be correct,” Madeline said, making and holding direct eye contact with the detective. “As I told you last night, I went to check on Mrs. Alexander before I went to see Miss Story. And as I said last night, I truly regret not checking on Miss Story first. She might still be alive if I had.”

  “Did you see anyone else on the second floor?”

  “Just Sally Verlain. She came to Mrs. Alexander’s room about four or five minutes before I made the call to 911.” Slovitch consulted his notes.

  “That would’ve been 9:37.”

  “That sounds about right. And she can verify that I was in Cherie’s room trying to get her pulled together.”

  “You were seen going up at 9:25. Sally goes up at 9:37. That still gives you a total of twelve minutes in which you could’ve easily popped into Miss Story’s room, had an altercation about something. Maybe she was disappointed with your progress in finding her stolen jewelry. When her back is turned, you strangle her, then dash down to the other end of the hallway to Mrs. Alexander’s room, giving yourself an alibi. Sally backs up that you were there when she got to Mrs. Alexander’s room. You’re home free,” Slovitch postulated.

  “You don’t really think I killed Vivian Story, do you?” she asked. Slovitch raised his brows evasively. “With a three-day party in full swing, do you honestly think I had the time to plot a murder? I can only assume you’re playing devil’s advocate here…” Slovitch shrugged ambiguously. Madeline held his stare, then let out a weary wheeze.

  “As far as I’m concerned right now, we’ve got five individuals who were on the second floor of the Alexander estate when Vivian Story was killed. Until I find further evidence one way or the other, all five will remain on the list of suspects. It’s just standard protocol.” Slovitch gave Madeline a hint of a smile, as if to say “no hard feelings.”