Blind Trust (Blind Justice Book 2)

by Adam Zorzi

  “Mrs. Fleming, Ms. Fleming, there was no sign of a break-in. Nothing was taken, so this wasn't a robbery. We can only surmise that Ambassador Fleming must have allowed his killer to enter.”

  “No,” interrupted her mother. “Never. After an evening out, he wouldn't let anyone in except LouLou. He believed everything could wait until the next day unless the president himself called.”

  “I'll make a note of that,” the officer said. “We investigated under the assumption that he admitted someone he knew, they followed him upstairs, and shot him at close range when he went into his dressing room to prepare for bed. A 9mm bullet to the heart. He died instantly.”

  LouLou gulped and held her mother's hand tighter. She felt like she was an actor on a TV crime show and believed she could anticipate the dialogue before it was spoken.

  “We found a handgun and shell casing.”

  Her mother interrupted the investigator. “Isn't that unusual? For the killer to leave the murder weapon.”

  “We haven't determined that it was the murder weapon.”

  “Why not? Please be specific.”

  “Mrs. Fleming,” the investigator said as he shifted uncomfortably, “until the coroner makes a determination that the ambassador was killed by a gun and not, for example, poison and then shot to cover it up, we can't say it's the murder weapon with certainty.”

  “Please sit down. Your fidgeting is annoying.”

  Her mom waited for him to sit before she continued questioning. “Humor me. Let's assume the gun was the murder weapon. Isn't it unusual for a murderer to leave the gun behind? Why would he do that?”

  The investigator coughed. “Yes, it's unusual. The weapon could've been left because he knows with certainty it can't be traced to him, or he's framing someone else and wants the gun to be found or left as a message of some kind. In any case, ballistics will tell us more than I can speculate.”

  “Thank you. I understand.”

  Hesitantly, the investigator continued.

  “Mrs. Fleming, the ambassador was vulnerable. He left his glasses on a book on his bedside table. Would he have been able to see much without his glasses?”

  This was ridiculous. The investigators would look at the lenses and know immediately her father was far sighted and only needed glasses to read. Why put her mother through such a question?

  “He only used them to read. He would have seen everything clearly.”

  “What was his bedtime ritual?”

  “Very much as you described. We would come home from an evening out, he'd take off his jacket and tie, stay downstairs for a nightcap, and come upstairs about fifteen or twenty minutes after I did. He'd remove his cufflinks, watch, and money from his pockets and place them in the valet tray on the bureau. He'd put his suit and tie on the butler stand, his shirt and socks in the laundry, and leave his shoes by the door to polish first thing the next morning. Then he'd come to bed.”

  She was remarkable. Her mother was telling them everything in detail. LouLou was awed. She also realized that her mother seemed to think if she answered the questions correctly, the investigators would say it was a mistake and her father would come home.

  “Did anyone else have keys to the house and know the alarm code?”

  “No one except LouLou and our housekeeper Mrs. Morse.”

  “Could Mrs. Morse have made a duplicate?”

  “No, it's a Medeco key. One that requires the owner's permission to reproduce.”

  “Other staff?

  “We don't have staff. If we're hosting a party, the caterer provides servers. We've used the same lawn service for years, as do most of our neighbors. We have a pool and exterior maintenance contract.

  “No one has a key and certainly no one knows the alarm code. It changes at irregular intervals. LouLou is notified by the security company. I tell Mrs. Morse directly.”

  LouLou kept telling herself to stay frozen. Frozen. If she stayed frozen, everything would be okay.

  Her mother looked weary, but she was dogged. “Didn't the Supreme Court Police follow my husband home? They usually do after we drop off Justice Bergen.”

  “I don't have that information, Ma'am.”

  “What about security logs? Surely, the company can tell you when my husband entered the house and disabled the alarm and what time he re-activated it. We usually activate immediately after we've closed the door if we don't plan to go out again. We don't wait until we go upstairs to bed.”

  “Another team is following up on that. I have just a few more questions. Can you think of anyone who had threatened the ambassador or might have wanted to harm him?”

  “No, nothing personal. You'll have to ask the State Department if there was anything connected to his previous positions.”

  “This is a delicate question, but I must ask. Might the ambassador have brought a guest home for the evening?”

  Her mother didn't respond immediately. When she realized what she was being asked, she was livid. “Another woman?” she shrieked. LouLou thought her mother might strangle the investigator. She'd never seen her mother so angry.

  “Or man,” he said neutrally.

  Her mother stood, jerking LouLou, who was still clutching her hand, with her. “That's enough. I'm not going to answer any more questions. Please leave my house and take your technicians, experts, and photographers with you. I want all of you out. All.”

  “Ma'am, this is a crime scene…”

  “Sir, you said the crime scene was my husband's dressing room. You don't need to look anywhere else. This house is off limits.”

  “Ma'am…”

  “You've had forty-eight hours. That's enough. I want you out.”

  That was the last LouLou saw of him. He never returned. His replacement never questioned LouLou. She assumed she would be considered an unreliable witness. Schizo. Can't be trusted.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Uncle Collin was her mother's rock. By the second day, he'd hired cleaners to rid the house of all evidence of the murder and investigation, delegated one of Brooks' law partners to liaise with the State Department, and asked Mrs. Morse's daughter to handle visitors and deliveries that had been allowed beyond the check point. Security from some department or agency was posted outside. Too late in LouLou's opinion, but they kept gawkers away.

  LouLou sat with the family around the dining room table for lunch. She kept movement to a minimum. Frozen. Frozen. Frozen. If she didn't move, she couldn't hurt herself or anyone else.

  She sat to her mother's right and held her hand. Her mom seemed to be comforted by that. She looked deflated after the confrontation with investigators the previous day. Lunch was served, but LouLou couldn't eat. The thought of putting anything—salad, omelet, fruit—down her throat made it constrict. She'd not been able to eat anything. Aromas made her nauseated.

  “Mom,” she whispered, “please excuse me.”

  She left the table and the dining room and went outside to the pool area. She retched and then leaned against one of the columns of the rear patio and breathed deeply. She started to cry. She was useless. She couldn't even sit through lunch to support her mother.

  “Ma petite, “said Tante Deirdre, “I brought you some water.” She handed her a glass of water with ice in a crystal glass. No garnish. “I remember you don't like cucumber.”

  “Thank you.” LouLou sipped slowly. “I'm sorry, Tante Deirdre. The smell of food made me sick. I couldn't stay.” She drank more.

  “Better?” Deirdre asked. “Why don't we take a walk around the back lawn.” She slipped LouLou's arm through hers and walked slowly into the grass. They didn't speak for a while.

  “You look so much like your dad. Those bright blue eyes and white blonde hair. Wasted on my brother. I got blue-ish eyes and mousey brown hair. You look lovely. Are you feeling better? Beyond this tragic happening?”

  “Yes, I've been well and happy. The invitation to create runway music and model for Chanel was a fluke. Mom and I had such fun in Paris.”


  Deirdre nodded and smiled. “I like her new haircut. Très chic.”

  “She talked to dad twice each day. They loved each other dearly. I don't know how she'll manage without him. I don't know how I'll manage without him.”

  Deirdre put her hand on LouLou's. “We have to find a way. There's no option.”

  The two had reached a garden bench and sat.

  “Tante, I'm so afraid. I'm afraid I'll have an episode and make things even worse for Mom. I keep telling myself to just stay frozen. Stiff. No movement. If I don't move, nothing can happen.”

  “Ah, ma petite, you suffer so much for one so young. For anyone. Have you seen a doctor since Paris?”

  “Yes, I have a doctor here. He comes every day. He tries to be reassuring, but I don't believe him.”

  “Why not? Do you feel an episode coming?”

  “No, but I have terrible anxiety that one will overcome me. The meds he gives me don't calm me.”

  “I don't think there is a medication that cures heartbreak. You loved your father, and he certainly loved you. Perhaps what you're feeling is not anxiety, but grief.”

  LouLou looked at her aunt. Traces of tears and sadness marked her face. LouLou thought it went deeper than the loss of her brother. She looked like she'd lost more.

  “I think you're right. I've never known grief. Is this what it feels like?”

  “Yes, I believe so. Your grandparents died at an old age of illnesses so the grief I felt wasn't as searing as with your father. Still young to me. Shot. Sudden.” She seemed to drift in thought. “I remember our Tante Catherine. She was like you. She had schizophrenia. She was pretty and sweet, but she'd have these wild episodes where she couldn't be contained.

  “Doctors wanted to permanently institutionalize her or perform surgery or put electricity through her brain. Her parents refused. The doctor gave her very strong injections that would calm her so much it would put her in a nearly comatose state, and then she would wake up and be herself again. It was frightening to your father and me.” She gave a wry smile. “That's a childlike perspective. The poor girl must have gone through hell, and what I remember was how she frightened us.

  “She died when she was about twenty-four. She never married. I don't know if she ever had a date. She had tutors and got an education certificate. She sang beautifully. A light soprano. Of course, she didn't have professional training, but her singing made her happy and that pleased her parents.

  “She and her mother did charity work and went to teas. She was always kind to us as children. She must have lived in fear as you do. I'm terribly sorry, LouLou. I don't know why I brought that unhappiness up.”

  Her great aunt had schizophrenia?

  “I've never heard this story. I thought I was alone in the family.”

  “Oh, non, ma petite. Tante Catherine was most certainly schizophrenic. Our father, your grandfather, had terrible dark moods when we were young. I believe that is a sign of depression or bipolar disease. I never asked, but I assume a doctor eventually gave him proper medication to ease his distress. He was about forty-five before his moods disappeared.”

  Her grandfather probably had a mental illness? Other relatives? Now she knew they weren't blood relatives, but it was odd that her father grew up around it and never mentioned it.

  “Dad never told me any of this.” It might have made things more bearable.

  Deidre was thinking. Counting. Her head was nodding.

  “Alors, your father was probably too young to remember anything more than fuzziness. He was not more than four or five when Catherine died. He might have been about eight when Papa's moods stopped. I was three years older so I remember more clearly. Your father probably didn't make a connection between Papa's headaches and depression. He cared mostly whether Papa was available to go riding with him.”

  “And you, Deidre? Do you have dark moods? I don't mean to be impertinent, but you look sad. Sadder than just about Dad.”

  “Not impertinent. We're family sharing medical stories. Yes, I suffer depression. It pushed my husband away. The pills made me gain weight and didn't always work. It is difficult for a husband.”

  “You're not fat.”

  “I don't have the girlish figure I maintained until I was forty. Even after two children. He loves me. He's just not faithful. It's not uncommon. You know that, surely.”

  “True, but I don't want it to happen to you.”

  “Mais oui, but it did. What your parents had was rare. You grew up in a very happy family. We must try to make things better for your mother. Neither of us can go too far, or we will damage our own health. That will help nobody.” She stood. “Let's go inside. Perhaps you can try some broth.”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-ONE

  Her mother was napping when LouLou returned to the house. Her conversation with Deirdre was startling. Her father's family had mental illnesses. Deirdre was probably right that her dad truly hadn't been aware of it and certainly never told her mother when they married years later.

  LouLou sat in the kitchen alone and drank the broth Deirdre had made while nibbling at toast. She couldn't finish more than a quarter of a slice. She knew she had to eat. Perhaps the psychiatrist would have some suggestion for an appetite stimulant. Maybe she was suffering pure grief. Nothing psychological about it at all.

  She slowly made her way upstairs to her room at the end of the hall. She passed her parents' room, where her mother had returned, and hoped that her mom would find some comfort there.

  Gregg was sitting in her favorite blue upholstered chair by a window overlooking the pool when she returned to her room. She flew into his arms. He barely had time to stand.

  “How? What? When?”

  He wrapped her in his arms. “Sshh. I'm sorry, LouLou. I'm sorry about your dad.” She put her head on his shoulder and leaned into him. He walked her to the bed and sat next to her.

  “You traveled.”

  “Skylar got your text from Paris. We talked about getting me here and decided to give it a try. Skylar drove me. We took it mile by mile. We made it to Ashland, Fredericksburg, Quantico. I lost concentration near Arlington and became invisible. That gave Skylar a scare, but we got back on the road with the radio blaring. He said it was to keep me awake, but of course, I don't sleep. The noise forced me to concentrate.

  “We each held our breath crossing into DC, but once we did, I knew we'd make it. Finding your house was tough. Skylar actually wished he had that woman in the windshield giving him directions. He'd never seen a city with such weird road patterns, and I was completely out of my element.”

  “Thank you, thank you, Gregg. Thank you for coming. I need you. I need us.” She let herself dissolve into the tears she'd been holding for days.

  There was a light knock at her door. “LouLou? It's Uncle Collin. Do you want dinner?”

  He pushed the door open slightly. LouLou opened her eyes. “No, thanks. I'll come down later.”

  He nodded. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  She had exactly what she needed. She cried herself to sleep in Gregg's arms. She didn't want him to ever let go.

  He kissed the top of her head and rocked her. “Sleep. I'm here.”

  ***

  When she woke, it was just after midnight. Gregg hadn't left. She hugged him tightly.

  “I'm hungry. I'm finally hungry. Let's go downstairs and see what's in the kitchen,” she whispered. “Remember not to help me. We don't want anyone to see the cream pitcher floating through the air and pouring its contents into my cup.”

  He took her hand. “I'm getting better at being a ghost. Don't worry.”

  She opened the door but didn't hear any noises in the house. The low lights burned in the hallway so she could easily make her way to the back stairs. It was faster than walking the length of the house to use the proper staircase.

  She rooted through the refrigerator. Mrs. Morse's daughter had labeled everything. She selected a slice of spinach quiche to mic
rowave and took a helping from the mixed green salad in a large wooden bowl. She tossed walnuts, cranberries, and orange slices on top and poured herself a glass of iced tea.

  Gregg sat at the table with his hands folded in his lap. She smiled at his effort to show her he wasn't planning to scare anyone with floating objects. She joined him.

  “Everything okay in here?” It was the security officer stationed in back of the house.

  “Fine, thanks. I missed dinner.”

  His eyes swept the room. “Let me know if you need anything.” She nodded with her mouth full.

  Gregg sat silently while she finished her meal. She rinsed the dishes, put them in the dishwasher, and filled a pitcher of ice and water to take upstairs. She signaled to him that she was ready to leave.

  Back in the safety of her room, she asked Gregg why he came.

  “I thought you needed me and wanted to be here if you did. Skylar and I read the papers and got the impression this was a big story, reporters were everywhere, and the cops didn't have any idea what had happened. I didn't know your dad was famous.”

  “Not famous. Just a recognizable name in DC. I never thought about reporters. I've been in the house since we got back from Paris except for an occasional walk around the lawn in back. I haven't seen any visitors. They're being screened. There's no one I want to see.”

  “Are you taking care of yourself?”

  “A doctor comes every day. At first, I was terrified I was going to have an episode and tried to stay still. If I didn't move, I couldn't hurt anyone. That wasn't true, but it got me through a couple of days. After talking with Tante Deirdre—Dad's older sister—this afternoon or morning or maybe the day before, I know it's anxiety and grief. It has nothing to do with Sick. It's grief.”

  “Sounds reasonable. I know you're still on a regimen. Did you take your meds today?”

  “Let me check.” She looked at her pill box marked with the days of the week and AM and PM. “No, I didn't take tonight's dose.” She took out two tablets and swallowed them with water. “Tomorrow morning, I have to give myself an injection.”