by Gregg Olsen
Of course, she wouldn’t. Unlike her mother, Lainie was a survivor. Both O’Neal twins were. Just in very different ways.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Tacoma
Darius Fulton lawyered up lickety-split, which certainly was no surprise to anyone. He protested that what made him look most guilty was nothing more than an error in judgment, not a clue to his culpability or complicity in a crime. He’d never once harmed anyone. Plus, he said there was no proof. Because there couldn’t be.
Oh, really, Detective Kaminski thought as he prepared for a meeting between the person of interest and his lawyer.
The crime lab determined that the partial print on the murder weapon matched a latent one recovered from the Dasani water bottle that Kaminski carried from the interview room with a Bic pen inserted into its neck after the meeting in which Darius Fulton confessed his indiscretion with Tori Connelly.
It was true, as Darius insisted; all of that could easily be explained. It was his gun. His fingerprints should be on it.
But an e-mail to the police department’s community web page sent by an anonymous tipster had changed things. There was something else suggesting that Fulton had done more than covet his neighbor’s wife. The e-mail came in from a Kinko’s rent-by-the-hour PC, and plainly indicated that Fulton was obsessed with Tori.
“Get his computer,” the tipster wrote. “You’ll see.”
Later that afternoon, Darius’s lawyer, Maddie Crane, a glossy-haired woman with an expressionless Botoxed face and a penchant for seeking out the red RECORD light of a TV camera, made a succinct statement to the media in the lobby of her Tacoma law firm offices.
“Yes, my client had a relationship with the deceased’s wife. We don’t deny that. But that’s the sum of his involvement here.”
A young man from KING-TV in Seattle was the only one to get a question out before she ended the press conference.
“Wasn’t he stalking her? Didn’t he bombard her with phone calls and e-mails?”
Ms. Botox’s fluttering eyelids were her only indicator of a reaction. She almost bent the folds of her face, but the ’tox had done its job.
“Statement over,” she said curtly.
The KING reporter winked at a newsroom associate, a woman he’d been flirting with for six weeks.
“See what I mean,” she said. “It’s all about the tips.”
“You going to tell me how you knew?” the young reporter asked.
He put his hand on her shoulder, a touch that sent a chill down her spine and reminded her why her father hadn’t wanted her to go into TV in the first place.
“Nope. Just a call. Just knowing the right people.”
In actuality, he, too, had received an anonymous e-mail.
Eddie Kaminski and four uniformed officers served a search warrant on Darius Fulton’s residence. His computers—a desktop and a laptop—were confiscated, as was a stack of DVDs and CD-ROMs. Among the electronic equipment was a video cam feed that emanated from the Connelly home across the street. The camera had been placed behind a Thomas Kinkade painting.
“Guy was a major stalker,” a cop told Kaminski.
“A regular Steve Jobs with all this electronic surveillance crap. Probably has an app on his iPhone that allowed him to keep an eye on her no matter where he was.”
“Sick, twisted piece of crap.”
Kaminski nodded.
“Yeah. He’s as good as going down for this.”
Kaminski recovered another item tucked into the cushions of the sofa—a black ski mask.
“Looky here at what I’ve found,” the detective said, holding it up with the tip of a pen.
Forensic specialist Cal Herzog grinned at the discovery.
“Boom! This guy’s done,” he said.
The camera used to feed images from the Connelly place to Darius Fulton’s residence was a wireless model manufactured by Lorex. Eddie Kaminski told the lab guys that he’d chase down the model number with the idea of determining just where it had been purchased. None of the credit card receipts thus far indicated that Darius had purchased a unit.
Stalkers are more paranoid than their victims, he thought as he scrolled through the database display of suppliers on his computer.
A box of pizza with congealed cheese and pepperoni beckoned from the corner of his desk, but Eddie Kaminski was working as hard on his case as he was on his waistline.
I will not eat another bite, because it is too damn wet outside to go running.
The model number in question was sold in only Best Buy and Radio Shack, which ordinarily would be good news for a detective trying to determine who had purchased the camera. However, the fact that their Internet sites also sold the cameras made it a lot harder to determine their point of sale. Any thought of heading over to the Tacoma Mall and presenting a photo display of cops and a suspected killer was dashed.
It was possible that the cam was purchased online, but the techs examining Darius Fulton’s computer had revealed no such transactions. In fact, apart from the e-mails they’d easily discovered at the first examination, there was nothing else to tie the neighbor to his victims.
In his pristine lab on the second floor, Cal Herzog cataloged the ski mask recovered from the Fulton residence. It was black with three holes for the eyes and mouth. REI manufactured the item of wool poly-blend yarn. It was of the type that could be purchased online or at any of the recreational company’s retail stores.
As he worked through the process of examining the mask, two things were remarkable and Cal made note of both of them.
First, he noted that there were absolutely no biologicals around the mouth or eyeholes. No saliva as would be expected. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities—he’d once examined a woman’s blouse on a rape case that was clean as a shirt off the rack at Macy’s. Blood from both Alex and Tori Connelly was found, though a greater amount of her blood was present than his.
Of the three hairs recovered, two had intact follicles, making them candidates for nuclear DNA testing. One was too damaged, but the other was in good shape. The third hair was shorter, darker, and without the benefit of a follicle. It would require the more comprehensive mitochondrial DNA testing.
Later, when the tests were complete, only one person’s name was on the report: Darius Fulton. The third hair? Unknown .
Tori’s words resonated in his ear. Tori knew that the right delivery ensured the prize—no matter what it was that she was after.
“Use cash for everything, babe. I’ll make sure you have the money. Never, ever use a debit card.”
“Only people over forty carry cash now,” he said.
“Yes. Only an old fool would carry money in his wallet. Plastic is so much cleaner.”
He played the conversation over dodging raindrops as he left his hand-me-down Camry, a crappy gift from his father. He loathed his dad for being an ass, first to his mother, then to Tori. Doing what he needed to do was getting easier with every step. His heart rate escalated as he entered the west end of the Tacoma Mall. The place smelled of popcorn and damp clothing.
He noticed the pimply-faced clerk, probably his age, as he went inside Radio Shack. There was no one else in the store.
“Hey,” the clerk said, sauntering over to the video cameras where Parker stood, his shoulders hunched and his hands stuffed inside his dark-dyed jeans. “You looking or buying?”
Parker glanced at him. “Buying.”
“Excellent. We’ve got a sweet sale. Do you know what you want?”
Parker shook his head, though he already knew what he wanted.
Tori had been specific. She always was specific. Her clear-cut instructions would make it easier when the time came.
“How do those Lorex cams work?” he asked.
“Like Jason Bourne,” the clerk said, “on a road trip.”
“Awesome. I’ll take one.”
The day before the intruder killed her ex-husband, Laura Connelly and Parker had a fight that le
ft her to contemplate the difficulties of motherhood with half a bottle of Riesling and a tub of Dreyer’s vanilla frozen yogurt. He’d been moody since his most recent visit with his father. It wasn’t that he ruminated about what a jerk his dad was; it was how much he wanted to return to North Junett.
“I want to live with Dad again,” he said.
“We’ve been over that. You’ve made a commitment and you have to live up to it, Parker. That’s the way life is.”
“I hate it when you say such bullshit.”
Laura winced. “Parker, I don’t think you should talk to me like that.”
“Why not?” Parker asked, now standing close to her. “I can talk to you any way I want. I’m not some little kid who can be shuffled around by you or Dad or anyone. You know, I’m not going to be pushed around by someone like you. The day I turn eighteen, I’m out of here.”
“I’ve never ignored you,” she said, backing away.
“More bullshit.”
“Parker, please.”
He turned away. “I’m going to spend the night at Drew’s.”
“I didn’t say you could,” she said, raising her voice a little for the urgency.
Parker’s eyes flashed at his mother. “Are you serious? Are you really trying to control me? Give it up, Mom. You lost that ability a long time ago. I’m doing what I want to do, for the reasons that make me happy.”
“I’ve made dinner.”
“You’re a shitty cook, Mom,” he said.
The door slammed and Laura turned off the oven. The lasagna that was one of her son’s favorites wasn’t going to be served that evening. The little boy whom she had loved was lost to her. She knew it. She knew it the way that a mother does when her child no longer looks up with adoring eyes, but eyes that see the truth.
I pushed him. I pushed him too hard. Why did I do that?
Laura poured herself some wine and went into his room. A Ghostbusters poster, a reminder of her boy’s favorite movie, hovered over his bed. Laura sat down and looked around the room. On his desk was a cutting board and spools of colored duct tape. He’d once spent hours there making duct-tape wallets that he and his best friend, Drew, thought they could sell door-to-door. It seemed so long ago. It seemed like he was a different boy. She wondered when he’d grow out of his moodiness. She hadn’t been a perfect mother, but she did the best that she could. Like her mother, probably. And her mother’s mother before her. There was no owner’s manual dispensed with each hospital birth.
She noticed the packaging for a webcam and she wondered what that was all about.
I really don’t understand all this social networking stuff, she thought.
In his car, Parker called his buddy, Drew Cooper, and explained that he wanted to lie low and that he’d told his mother he was staying with him. He didn’t have a hands-free device, so he hunched a little as he passed a Washington State patrol vehicle parked by the Puyallup River Bridge exit. The last thing he needed was to be noticed.
“When are you going to tell me about the chick you’re boning?” Drew said.
Parker laughed. “Soon enough, bro.”
He and Drew were no longer close, and he’d never tell that doofus about Tori. Drew had a big mouth and a judgmental mother. Confiding in him was as good as posting it on his Facebook wall. In two minutes’ time, the information would be shared by everyone he knew.
“You staying with her?” Drew asked.
“Yeah. For a day or two. Watch my back, all right?”
“Sure. Her parents gone?”
“Something like that.”
“Why can’t I be so lucky? What do I have to do to get a girl to put out?”
Don’t go for a girl, go for a woman.
“Don’t have an answer for you, bro,” Parker said. “Just be patient. The right one will come along.”
That was a lie, too. Parker Connelly knew that soul mates almost never really found each other. Drew was a loser like the rest of the people he knew. Like his dad. His mother. They couldn’t conceive of the power and deep satisfaction that comes from finding the other half of one’s self.
For always like swans.
Parker hung up and turned on the radio and listened to the news. Tori liked him for his body and his brain. He wasn’t like anyone she’d ever met. He was handsome, strong. Smart.
He parked and made his way to the airport ticket kiosk. It was the one tricky element of their plan, a ticket to the Caribbean so they could start their life together. They talked about the danger of leaving a trail of any kind, even though there was absolutely no way they’d be caught. He didn’t even buy the ticket under his own name. Tori thought of everything. He wore a down vest under his dark blue hoodie and kept his head down.
“I wish we could buy a ticket with cash,” Tori had said as they snuggled in bed, making their plans. “But those terrorists have screwed up everything for everyone.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Cash in your father’s frequent flier points,” she said.
“Got it handled, Tori.”
“Then make love to me.”
“So the money will be transferred at midnight?” Tori asked.
“Midnight their time, but yes, that’s right.”
“We do not have to take any action to have the money go directly into the offshore account?”
“Nope,” the lawyer said. “Nothing. All set up.”
“Wonderful,” Tori said.
“Two million dollars, that’s some birthday present,” she said.
Tori felt a surge of excitement, like the first few minutes of really good sex.
“Yes, it is. He’s a very lucky boy.”
Kendall crawled under the covers and nuzzled Steven. He was asleep, snoring softly in the manner she found more charming than irritating. The regular rhythm of his slumber was something that she could always count on and it comforted her just then. She found herself thinking of how her life might have gone if they’d stayed apart. She remembered how lost she’d been those lonely, dark days.
Jason Reed’s voice reverberated in her memory.
“Kendall, I don’t know what to say.”
“I don’t, either,” she said. “We need to do what’s right.”
“I need more time to sort out some things.”
“I’m begging you,” she said. “Please.”
That was the last time that they really spoke. She was seventeen, ashamed, and feeling as if the world was going to come to an end. She talked things over with her mother. She prayed to God. She’d done what every other teenage girl who became pregnant since the world made such things shameful did. She hid it from everyone.
But the baby’s father.
As she lay there next to Steven, she thought of how much the world had changed in the past fifteen years. Celebrities had babies without marriage every day. They even posed for magazine covers as if there was nothing wrong. The stigma had been washed away. Even in conservative Port Orchard, people had changed their thinking.
And yet, Kendall had kept it a secret. She didn’t tell Steven, though there were many times when she could have. It was private and she wanted it to stay that way. As time progressed, she was able to set aside some of the emotion that came with her decision.
I did what I had to do, she thought. I did what was the right thing at the time. Not the right thing for who I am today, but who I was back then.
When Cody was diagnosed with autism, Kendall blamed herself. She felt that it was payback from God for the choice that she made.
How many times can I say I’m sorry? she asked.
She wrote a letter to Steven that she’d intended to give him, but never did.
When I dreamed of falling in love, I dreamed of you. I don’t know if you’ll ever understand, but I’m begging you to try. For the rest of my life, I’ll live with the shame of knowing that the mistake I made was only compounded by the lies that I’ve told, the past that I’ve swept away.
Years later
, when cleaning out the bedroom closet of their Harper house, Kendall found a cache of letters in a cigar box that had belonged to her father. There were postcards, too, from trips she and Steven had taken before Cody was born. Paris. The Grand Canyon. Vancouver Island. Among the items was the “I’m sorry” note. She picked at it, not sure if she wanted to unfold it. The letters bled through the stationery like a ghost from a bad dream. She could make out some of the words, and her heart sank. So much to remember. So much to save. No review was needed, of course. Every word from that time had been etched in her memory. She unfolded it slowly, feeling the texture of the slightly rippled paper. She remembered she’d cried when she wrote it.
The final words lay on the page like the message on a tombstone, destined to be forever.
Forgive me, so I can forgive myself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tacoma
If anyone passed him on the trail along the Thea Foss Waterway that morning, Eddie Kaminski would have conjured the image of an old steam locomotive. He ran through the chilly air, streams of warm breath following him step by step. Puff. Puff. Puff. His running was on autopilot because his mind was so wrapped up in his thoughts of what had transpired over the past few days. There was no denying that there had been some anomalies in the Alex Connelly case that made it of the twisty sort that detectives mull over. Sometimes obsessively so. Out running, in the car, or with his daughter as they shared a couple of calzones at a restaurant in Spanaway—any time, all times. Wealthy husband shot to death and a stunningly beautiful woman who seemed less concerned about her husband than the appearance of her own culpability. It was apparent to the investigative team that Darius Fulton had been obsessed with his neighbor and more than likely had been the triggerman.
