Closer Than Blood

by Gregg Olsen

  Confrontation never worked.

  Tori studied Lainie’s face, looking for something.

  “I have some pills I can give you,” she said. “To help you sleep.”

  Lainie shook her head. “No, thanks, Tori. I think I’m just going to lie down and try it again.” She had another thought on her mind and she knew right then she’d never voice it. She couldn’t help but wonder just what pills her sister would give her.

  To help her sleep . . . like in the dream of their mother’s death.

  Tori had scattered three dresses on her bed. They were expensive with fine embellishments that caught the light, organza overlays that undulated in the crisp air from a cracked-open bedroom window. Oversize tags hung from the bodice of each, reminding the purchaser that “special occasion” dresses could not be returned without the tag intact.

  Lainie peered over Tori’s shoulder and offered her assessment of the dresses that they’d looked at the week before when they were doing a reconnaissance shopping expedition at a downtown Seattle department store.

  “I thought you only got the blue one,” she said.

  Tori offered up a slight and knowing smile. “I went back for the yellow and the lilac.”

  “I didn’t realize you had so much money,” Lainie said. “I could barely afford one.”

  Her sister smoothed the fabric on the lilac dress. “Who says I paid for them?”

  “Seriously, Tori. You’re bad, but not that bad.”

  Tori sat down on the bed and faced Lainie. “I guess you don’t really know me.” She grinned as though she’d revealed some big secret.

  Lainie refused the obvious bait. She’d been there before a thousand times. Tori liked to challenge her, provoke her. Push her. That afternoon she was having none of that. She was in too good of a mood. She was excited about the dance, her date, the evening out of the house. Lainie pointed to the blue dress. It was the shortest of the three with a sweetheart neckline that she knew Tori would like.

  She always liked to shove what little cleavage she had into the faces of her admirers.

  “I like that one,” Lainie finally said.

  Tori made a face. “I hate that one,” she said. “Boring. I like the yellow.”

  Lainie let out an exaggerated sigh. “Then why did you ask me?”

  “Because I know you’ll pick the worst one. You always do.”

  Lainie resisted the urge to offer up an insult of her own. She could do it, of course. But not right then. “Guess you know what not to wear, then.”

  Tori thrust the yellow dress at Lainie.

  “I want you to put this one on,” she said.

  Lainie shook her head. “I have a dress.”

  “I know, stupid. I want you to put it on so I can see how I’ll look in it. You know, to decide.”

  Lainie knew there was no arguing with her sister. The only thing that made her truly happy about the approaching South Kitsap dance was that it was the beginning of the end, the constant sharing. The car. Classes. Their father’s house. Soon, they’d go off their separate ways to different colleges and different lives. Their twinship would bind them forever, of course, but the pressure to be close would abate.

  At least that’s what she told herself.

  She stripped down to her underwear and stepped into the dress. She didn’t ask Tori to zip it; instead, she struggled on her own, reaching awkwardly around her back and pulling up the zipper. Dress on, she faced her sister.

  “I don’t expect you to stomp it out on the catwalk, but can you at least stand up straight? I would never stand like that. Maybe hold your pooch in a little.”

  “I don’t have a pooch, Tori.” She was getting angry then, but anger never seemed to get anywhere with Tori. In fact, it made matters worse. It was almost always better to just give in.

  “Whatever,” Tori said. “Turn around.”

  Slowly, and without any joy, Lainie spun in a single rotation. No trace of a smile on her face. Just the look of a teenager who wished she’d never said yes to the request.

  “I’ll stick with the blue,” Tori said. “You can have that one. Cute on the hanger, but ugly on us. Or maybe it’s just ugly on you.”

  The Tacoma News Tribune missed the news cycle of the arrest in the Tacoma murder case, leaving KING-TV the scoop on its broadcast and updated website:

  Fulton Arrested for Connelly Murder and Assault

  Darius Fulton was arrested by Tacoma Police in his home across the street from the shooting that took the life of Alex Connelly and left his wife hospitalized on May 5.

  Police say that Fulton, 55, had been stalking Tori Connelly for several months.

  “His advances were unwanted and relentless,” lead investigator Edmund Kaminski said, though he refused to elaborate.

  “Although we’re devastated by the news of the arrest,” said Charla Maxwell of the North End Neighbors’ group, “we’re glad to know that our quiet street is safe once more.”

  Police had originally suggested that the killing was a home invasion gone wrong.

  If Darius Fulton had thought even for a nanosecond that his life couldn’t get any worse up until that moment—arrested, handcuffed, and dispatched to the Pierce County Jail like a common criminal—he was sadly mistaken. He was herded into a holding pen with three dozen other men, drug dealers, violent felons, guys who knew their way around the system.

  Or at least knew there was no way around it whatsoever.

  “Dude, you like this?” a shirtless man called over from the other line.

  Darius looked away.

  “Like cattle in here. You’ll get used to it.”

  He shrugged, thinking that some reaction might be more prudent than completely ignoring the guy.

  An officer took an orange marking pen and drew an ID number on Darius’s upper arm.

  “Branded, dude! You’ve been branded!”

  As he sat there wondering how an afternoon with a beautiful woman could have gone so wrong, Darius Fulton said a silent prayer. He prayed he’d live long enough to get out of there in one piece. His frame of reference for prison life was an old HBO television series, and he was sure that even though it was on cable, it was sugarcoated. He wasn’t with a gang and there was no one to protect him. He’d called his lawyer and she was on her way.

  Carrying his meal—a cellophane bag containing a slice of bologna, two pieces of bread, and a yellow mustard pack—Darius was led with a half dozen other men to another holding cell. Whether it was shame or self-preservation, he couldn’t be sure. He kept his head down low. As the linked-up badasses passed the metal detector, he looked up. He heard a familiar voice. It was Eddie Kaminski talking with a corrections officer.

  There to see him suffer, maybe?

  “Kaminski!”

  The detective turned toward the sound of his name.

  Fulton jerked on the chain to slow down the stream of men.

  “I didn’t do this! I would never hurt anyone. I liked Tori Connelly. I know she didn’t like me.”

  “Shouldn’t talk to anyone but your lawyer, Fulton.”

  The prisoner next to Darius looked back at the disheveled businessman.

  “He’s right. Shut the fuck up.”

  After he passed by, the detective walked in the direction of a couple of prisoners yakking it up on payphones.

  Kaminski picked up the phone, dropped in some coins, and dialed.

  “These phones are for inmates only,” said a young man with a spiderweb tattoo over his neck. “Use your own phone.”

  “Screw you,” Kaminski said, flashing his badge. “I’ll use whatever goddamn phone I want.”

  Maddie Crane could not have been angrier at her client. They sat in a private cell set aside for lawyers and clients. If its walls could talk, they’d likely scream. Wife murderers. Child killers. Boys and men who’d killed for the fun of it. All types of evil had been housed in that jail, and they had crawled around the slab floors like the vermin they were. Maddie, relieved of
her purse and luxurious coat, sat like a chorus girl in search of a date as she nervously waited for Darius to come down the corridor. She stiffened a little when she heard the rattle of chains and the sound of voices. A beat later, Darius appeared in the doorway to the holding cell. He wore a county-issue jumpsuit and flip-flops. The marking on his forearm was still visible. He’d come a long way from his cozy life in North Tacoma.

  A very long way, indeed.

  “Do you realize that you’ve got to get it together?” she asked as he sat across from her.

  “I’m doing the best I can, Maddie. This is more concentration camp than boutique hotel.”

  “Yes, I know, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Nervously, Maddie looked up at the guard who was pretending to ignore them.

  “The last thing we need to do is get the likes of someone like him to testify against you.”

  “Why would he?”

  “Look,” she said. “No more phone calls, okay? You have no idea what these places are like.”

  Darius was unsure of what she meant.

  “I didn’t call anyone,” he said. “This is a setup. That bitch across the street set me up.”

  She looked hard at him. “Look, I understand how you feel. I’m going to get you out of this mess. We have to work through the system.”

  Darius was sure he was going to have a heart attack.

  “Trust me,” he said, almost laughing at the words that just came from his lips. “I’m getting a very good idea about how things work around here. An hour ago I saw two guys beat the shit out of each other for a deflated bag of potato chips.”

  Maddie drummed her nails on the table.

  “I’m not going to spell it out,” she repeated. “Just trust me. Call only me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Tacoma

  Tori Connelly stood impatiently in the reception area at the Tacoma Police Department. Her blond hair was a halo. Her blue eyes caught the light in a way that seemed almost unearthly, so sparkly, so capable of drawing someone in. Eddie Kaminski almost blinked when he met her to go upstairs to an interview room, where Cal Herzog was waiting.

  “You’ve met Cal,” he said, introducing the forensic specialist on the Connelly investigation team.

  “Yes, Cal,” she said.

  “How’s your leg?” Cal asked, as she sat down in the interview room. “You look like you’re doing better. No limp.”

  “Are you flirting with me?” she asked.

  “I didn’t mean anything personal, just asking.”

  She pretended to be a little disappointed. “I’m better, thank you.”

  “What can we do for you?” Kaminski asked. “We’ve arrested your shooter, your husband’s killer.”

  “I’m grateful for the attention you’re giving my husband’s case. My case. That’s why I’m here.”

  “You’re welcome,” Kaminski said. “Anything else, Mrs. Connelly? Anything else on your mind?”

  “Tori. Please.”

  “All right then, Tori, anything else? I mean, if you’re here for a status update on the case, I can’t tell you anything more than I already have.”

  Tori nodded. “I didn’t come here for anything other than to thank you.”

  “Now that you’re here,” Cal said. “I guess we can go over a few things that I’ve been wondering about.”

  She looked surprised. “Loose ends?”

  “Something along those lines,” he said, looking for his notes.

  “All right, shoot,” she said, then corrected herself. “Guess that’s not the best expression to use under these circumstances.”

  Kaminski shook off Tori’s attempt at disarming him with a little humor.

  “About the insurance,” he said. “You didn’t know that Parker was the beneficiary, did you?”

  “My husband left me well provided for. If his wish was to take care of his son, then fine. I’m grateful to be alive.”

  Cal took the next question. “You weren’t devastated by his office affair?”

  Tori’s eyes stayed fixed firmly on his. “You know I was. But I’ve made my peace with that. I forgave Alex. Water, detective, under the bridge.”

  “Right,” he said.

  “You don’t believe me. That’s because you don’t know me. I have been through a lot in my life. I can be very forgiving.”

  This time Cal pushed a little harder. It wasn’t good cop, bad cop. Just Cal on overdrive. “Are you referring to your incarceration? Or the death of your first husband?”

  Once again, Tori did not flinch.

  “I came here to thank you. You’re treating me like a suspect.”

  “Just looking for some answers ... Tori,” Kaminski said.

  “My record was expunged. I’m guessing someone from Port Orchard told you. Small-town people never forget things like that, though they should. I served my time. I went on with my life, and, above all, Jason Reed’s death was a terrible, tragic accident,” she said. She reached for a tissue as if she were about to cry, but there was no evidence of tears.

  “I’ve talked with the Sheriff ’s Department,” he said.

  “Detective Stark?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s a very good friend of mine,” she said. “She knows what I’ve gone through.”

  “What about Zach Campbell?”

  “What about him?”

  “His death.”

  Tori indicated a water bottle and Cal handed it to her. “An accident. I told you.”

  “But it made you rich.”

  Her face tightened a little. Loveliness turned to menace.

  “I loved him. Do you really think for one second that I’d have wanted his money over his life?”

  “You tell us, Tori.”

  “You know I came here to say thank you. I came here because I was going away for a few days and I wanted you to know how to reach me. In case you needed any help. Talk about blaming the victim. If this rinky-dink police department had a victims’ advocate, I’d go to his or her office right now and read him the riot act.”

  Kaminski stood and held his hands out, as if to push down the diatribe. “Hey, calm down. Those questions had to be asked. And they will be asked. At trial, Fulton’s people will make sure that they tie you up and run the bus over you back and forth, every which way they can. They’ll make you out to be a total bitch.”

  Cal wanted to interject, “Which is exactly what you are,” but he refrained from doing so.

  “I understand that, Eddie,” she said. “But you have no idea what I’ve been going through.”

  “Please, call me Detective Kaminski,” he said, looking over at Cal. “And yes, I have an idea. A pretty good one.”

  After Kaminski walked her to the elevators and down to reception, he returned to find Cal hovering by his cubicle.

  “Jesus,” Cal said, scratching his head. “What a piece of work that one is.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Only one thing I got out of that.”

  “What was that?”

  “She likes you. I’d watch out.”

  They both laughed.

  “Why do you think I’ve taken up running? To get away from women like her.”

  Kendall Stark stood on the Harper Dock while Steven and Cody pulled in the yellow nylon rope tethered to a crab pot they’d baited and dropped earlier that day. She held her phone to her ear and listened as Eddie Kaminski called back about the condom wrapper Lainie had found in the guest room.

  “Anyway, can you cut us some slack on this? This isn’t your case and, besides, Darius Fulton’s our guy.”

  “I guess so,” Kendall said, not believing her own words. The air was cool and the wind had started to blow across the water. She closed her phone.

  “Catch anything?” she asked as Steven and Cody teamed up to draw in the line, hand over hand.

  “I should ask you the same question,” Steven said.r />
  Kendall smiled at her husband. Steven was supportive and patient. He knew the importance of catching the bad guy, or in that particular case, the bad girl.

  “Working on it,” she said.

  The crab pot broke the surface of the silvery water of the Sound. Inside, a large Dungeness crab clamped onto the punctured cat food tin the Starks used for bait.

  “Look, Mommy!” Cody said. “Watch out. Sharp!”

  The pot on the dock, Steven stooped down and opened the lid to the trap. “Damn!” he said. “It’s a female! Got to throw her back. Don’t let her get you.”

  Kendall thought the same warning might have been good one for the men involved with Tori O’Neal Campbell Connelly.

  Don’t let her get you.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Port Orchard

  Fifteen years ago

  It didn’t matter if the twins were in the same room or a thousand miles away from each other. Key moments in their lives often percolated in their thoughts at the same time. The big moments, the ones that shaped each girl into the woman she became. And while they thought of the same things, they didn’t always share matching perspectives. Lainie tossed and turned in the loneliness of a bed that she never shared with anyone more than a few nights at a time. Alternately, Tori curled up next to a man and did what she could to keep him interested in her, even if she wasn’t truly paying attention to him.

  And yet they thought of Port Orchard, what happened that night on Banner Road, and in the months that followed.

  Both had reasons to keep it all secret.

  The visiting room at the Secure Crisis Residential Center was outfitted with sofas, tables, and bolted-down end tables and lamps. It was either the milieu of Motel Hell or the sitting room of a paranoid miser who wanted to ensure that nothing left the premises. Handwritten signs indicated that visitors and residents would be searched after the conclusion of their time together. Visitors got a simple, unobtrusive pat-down by a pleasant-faced person of their own gender. Though it wasn’t always the case—because it depended on who was on duty—residents were strip-searched. Women were examined by a rubber-gloved female officer, of course, but for safety and security reasons, an observer would be present, too. Often it was a male. And while they purported that they were there only for the benefit of the person doing the search, some were there because, like all creeps, they liked to watch.