Similar to how Lily imagined herself chained to Bobby Hernandez, her daughter associated her with the most devastating experience of her life. Why couldn’t the men who committed these atrocities realize the trauma they were inflicting? She took a sip of Shana’s water, then handed it back to her. “I don’t understand the significance of the rosebushes.”
Shana leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, rubbing her palms over her face. “The windows were open that night,” she told her. “I remember how his body stank, then I must have blocked everything else out.” She turned to face her mother. “While he was doing those awful things to me, all I remember is the smell of roses.”
LILY PULLED into the driveway of her daughter’s North Hollywood duplex at eight-thirty that evening. After Shana’s emotional revelation, pressuring her to return to Santa Barbara was out of the question. They stopped at a café and had dinner, most of the meal passing in silence. As soon as she got up the courage to tell Shana about her father’s arrest, Lily decided the best way to proceed was to rent her a car.
“Why isn’t Dad home by now?” the girl said. “Now I’m really worried.”
Lily saw a light burning in the living room. “Did you leave the lights on this morning?”
“I don’t remember.” Shana started to get out of the car.
“Don’t go in yet,” her mother said, catching her by the hand.
Shana’s eyes widened. “Do you think that guy I saw last night came back and broke in?”
“No, no,” Lily said, clearing her throat to cover her uncertainty. “It’s probably only your father.”
Shana stared at the empty driveway. “If Dad came home, where’s my car?”
“The police impounded it,” Lily told her, shifting sideways in her seat. “Your father was arrested last night. That’s why I wanted you to go back with me. I knew you’d have no way to get around without your car. Don’t worry, though, I’ll make arrangements to rent you one.”
“Shit,” Shana said, kicking the panel underneath the dashboard. “Another drunk-driving arrest. I knew it, Mom. I even took my car keys away from him last night. He still went out, damn him.”
As calmly as she could, Lily related what had occurred. When Shana heard her father had not only been arrested but had struck and killed a pedestrian, she broke down and cried. “I don’t want to see him,” she spat out. “I’d claw his eyes out, the stupid jerk. Take me to Santa Barbara. Take me to China. Take me anywhere.”
“Relax,” Lily said, “I reacted the same way. Getting yourself all worked up isn’t going to solve anything. Let me go inside first. More than likely, your father hasn’t been released from jail yet and you just left the light on by accident. Once I’m certain he’s not home, we’ll collect some of your things and rent a hotel room. First thing in the morning, I’ll see if I can get you a spot in the dorm. If nothing else, I’ll throw your father out, and you can advertise for a roommate.”
“What about that big case you’re handling?” Shana asked, pulling out a Kleenex and blowing her nose. “You know, the one where the little girl was poisoned? I don’t want this mess with Dad to interfere with your job. What you do is too important.”
“I’d rather stay here and take care of things in the morning. Both of us need to get a decent night’s sleep.” Lily got out of the car, taking her cell phone as a precaution. Running into John would be unpleasant, but with Marco Curazon out of prison, far worse things could happen.
When she reached the porch, she discovered the extra key she kept to the duplex was missing. She started to return to the car to get Shana’s key, then tentatively reached for the door handle, finding it unlocked. John must have found a ride home, she decided, stepping inside. The living room was empty, however, and the phone was ringing in the kitchen. The phone stopped ringing, but she didn’t hear her husband’s voice.
“John,” she called out. “Are you here?”
Just then Lily heard noises in the back section of the duplex. “Now isn’t the time to play foolish games, John. Let me know if you’re in the house or I’m going to call the police.”
Get out! a voice inside told her. Spinning around, she almost tripped on the steps leading to the walkway. Back in the car, she fumbled with her keys, finally finding the ignition key and starting the car.
“What’s going on?” Shana asked. “Why didn’t we stay and get my things? Was Dad home or not?”
“I don’t know,” her mother said, speeding off down the street. “The door was unlocked. I heard strange noises.”
“Maybe Dad was in the bathroom and he didn’t hear you,” Shana told her. “I think he’s losing his hearing. Lately he plays the TV so loud, I have trouble studying.”
“Remember what I’m telling you, Shana,” Lily said, pulling over and parking a few blocks away. “When you sense something isn’t right, always trust your instincts. As soon as I found out the door was unlocked, I should have left. I’m convinced someone was inside there, but I don’t think it was your father.”
Lily hit the preprogrammed 911 button on her phone, requesting that a police unit meet them at the duplex. “We were at that location twice last night,” the female dispatcher said, the address flashing on her computer. When the patrol had been unable to locate Shana on the UCLA campus, Hope Carruthers had followed Detective Osborne’s instructions and issued an order for Shana to be picked up for questioning. As soon as the dispatcher shifted to another screen and read the alert bulletin, she asked, “Are you related to Shana Forrester?”
“Yes,” Lily answered, thinking they were balking at sending another unit out. “I’m her mother. Last night when I called, I was in another city. Just a few minutes ago, I drove my daughter home and found the front door unlocked, the lights on, and I heard strange noises inside.”
“Where are you now?”
Lily glanced at the street sign. “In the 1300 block of Cliff Road.”
The dispatcher continued, “What kind of car are you driving?”
“A black 1996 Audi.”
“Is your daughter with you?”
“Yes,” Lily said, clasping Shana’s hand.
“Wait for the officers at that location,” the dispatcher advised. “They’ll check the residence first before they contact you.”
“Don’t hang up,” Lily told her. “There’s a possibility my ex-husband is inside the house. I don’t want the officers to mistake him for a burglar and shoot him.”
APPROXIMATELY TWENTY minutes later, a police unit pulled up behind the Audi, its headlights illuminating the interior of the car. Shana had dozed off, her head resting against the passenger window. Lily tried to slip out of the car without waking her. “Where am I?” the girl said, her eyes springing open as soon as her mother opened the car door. “I was having this terrible dream. A building had collapsed, and I was buried under all this rubble.”
“Stay here,” Lily told her. “I’ll handle the police.”
The two police officers separated, heading toward opposite sides of the vehicle. “Are you Lily Forrester?” Gary Stafford asked, a stout, blond-haired man in his late twenties.
“Yes,” she said. “What did you find at the house?”
“We didn’t spot any signs of a break-in,” he said. “There’s always the possibility that you might have surprised an intruder. When you return, check to see if any of your property is missing.”
“It’s my daughter’s residence,” Lily said, placing one foot inside the car. “Thanks, officer.”
“Ah…Mrs. Forrester,” Stafford said, holding onto the door. “I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to take your daughter down to the police station. You can come along if you wish, but since she’s an adult, you don’t have to be present for us to interrogate her.”
Lily was aghast. The word interrogate resounded in her ears. “What is this about, officer? My daughter hasn’t committed a crime.”
“No one said she did, ma’am.” Officer Stafford glanced over the top of the p
atrol car. His female partner asked to see Shana’s driver’s license, wanting to verify they had the right individual. Shana retrieved her wallet out of her backpack, removed her license, then looked anxiously toward her mother. “John Forrester was arrested last night for vehicular homicide in front of the address we just cleared,” the officer continued. “The car involved in the accident was registered in the name of Shana Forrester.”
“This woman says I have to go with her,” Shana cried, pressing her body against the car. “I don’t understand. Are they going to arrest me? God… this can’t be happening. Why would they think I killed that person?”
“Don’t panic,” Lily said, rushing to her side. “They only want to ask you some questions. No one is going to arrest you or hurt you.”
Stafford joined them. “Can’t this wait until tomorrow morning?” Lily asked him, holding Shana around the waist. “I just told her about her father’s arrest, so you can imagine how stressful this has been. I promise I’ll bring her down first thing in the morning. All you have to do is give me the address.”
“I’m not the investigating officer,” Stafford explained, taking in the dark circles under Lily’s eyes and the panicked look on her daughter’s face. “I can do a check with dispatch and see if they can track down the detectives who issued the bulletin for you, see what they say.”
“I’d really appreciate it,” Lily said. “It’s almost ten o’clock. Both of us are exhausted.”
Stafford returned to his unit, using his portable phone to bypass central dispatch and contact the investigative bureau. After being advised that the detectives had left for the day, he asked to be patched through to Hope Carruthers at her residence.
“You have both Lily and Shana Forrester?” Carruthers asked, turning off the television set in her apartment.
“Yeah,” Stafford said, squinting at the two bedraggled women though the windshield. “They look like they’ve been through the wringer, to tell you the truth. Are you certain you want us to bring the girl in tonight? Isn’t she only wanted for questioning? Her mother swears she’ll bring her in tomorrow.”
“No can do,” Carruthers said, knowing how adamant Osborne had been about questioning Shana Forrester. Lily being present was an unexpected bonus. “Bring them to the Burbank station ASAP. I’m walking out the door right now.”
“What about their car?”
“Let the mother drive,” the detective told him, picking up her gun and badge off the coffee table. “Stay on their tail, though, Stafford. There’s more going on here than you could ever imagine.”
14
Henry Middleton walked into the master bedroom of his six-thousand-square-foot home in the foothills above Montecito. His wife, Carolyn, was sprawled out on the four-poster bed still dressed in her clothes. “You squandered over five hundred bucks on that cashmere sweater,” he told her. “Sleeping in it seems ridiculous, particularly since we’re on the verge of losing everything we have.”
Without looking at him, she flopped over onto her side. “I didn’t get home from the hospital until almost six. Maggie quit, so I had to rush back out and get the kids something to eat. I’m too exhausted to move, let alone take my clothes off.”
Middleton kicked his shoe halfway across the room. “I spent last night in a frigging jail cell and you’re tired because you had to visit your dying daughter? Give me a break, Carolyn.”
“Shut up, Henry,” Carolyn snapped. “Betsy had another seizure. Not only that, that lady district attorney showed up at the hospital and started pumping me for information.”
Henry’s jaw went slack. “At the hospital? Lily Forrester was at the hospital?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?” Carolyn glowered at her husband. “Did one night in jail cause you to lose your hearing?”
Henry dropped down on the bed beside her, his face twisted in concern. “What did Forrester ask you? Good Lord, my entire future is on the line. I told you not to speak to anyone unless my attorney was present.”
With the heel of one foot, Carolyn pushed on his side until he had no choice but to return to a standing position. “I didn’t tell her anything,” she said. “Quit acting like a baby, Henry. You know they’ll never convict you. They don’t have enough evidence.” She reached over and picked up a bottle off the nightstand, poured several pills into the palm of her hand, then washed them down with a glass of wine.
Her husband wrestled the bottle away from her, squinting as he read the label on the prescription. “This is Betsy’s seizure medication. Why in God’s name are you taking her pills?”
“Why not?” Carolyn said, a dull look on her face. “I’ve been taking them for months. In case you haven’t noticed, my nerves are wrecked and my back is killing me from sitting in that awful metal chair all day.”
“Why don’t you ask them to bring in another chair?” he said, running his fingers through his hair.
“The place is run by nuns, dickhead,” she barked. “There’s not a comfortable chair in the entire place. Even the hospital equipment looks like it’s a thousand years old.”
“That’s still not a reason to take Betsy’s pills.”
“They’re muscle relaxers,” she told him, gulping down the rest of the wine, then slapping the glass back down on the end table. “They help me to relax. The booze doesn’t cut it anymore, even the strong stuff.”
Henry paced back and forth in front of the bed, the pill bottle locked in his hand. “You’re an idiot,” he said. “You could overdose. I’m not a doctor, but I’m certain you shouldn’t mix this type of medication with alcohol. If anything happens to you, the police will accuse me of trying to kill you as well as Betsy.”
Carolyn’s lips curled into a smile. “Maybe I will overdose.”
“Why would you even say something like that?” Henry asked. “Haven’t I been through enough? Do you want them to kill me?”
Carolyn sat up in the bed, a petulant look on her face. “I thought everything would be over by now.”
“This is only the beginning,” her husband told her, still attempting to absorb the enormity of the situation. “There’s the preliminary hearing, selecting a jury, then the trial itself. According to what Fowler told me, we could be looking at a year, even longer.”
“I wasn’t talking about the trial,” Carolyn said, glancing at a chip in her dark red fingernail polish. “I can’t spend every day of my life at the hospital. You insist that I keep going so everyone will see what a devoted mother I am. Why should I have to prove myself? Betsy’s a vegetable now.”
Henry Middleton lunged at her, seizing her by the shoulders. “She’s your daughter, for chrissakes.”
“Get your hands off me,” she snarled, throwing her arms out to break his grip. “We agreed to turn off the respirator. I was looking forward to taking a vacation, putting this behind us. Now I’m stuck here. I can’t even go to the country club.”
Henry was speechless. Had he really married this woman, had children with her, sworn undying love to her? Was it the pills and alcohol talking, or had she always been this way and he’d been too blind to notice?
“The kids are having trouble at school,” she continued, placing another pillow behind her back. “Cathy came home crying yesterday. Jacob stays in his room all the time with the door closed. He doesn’t even have his friends over anymore.”
“At least you’re not on trial for attempted murder,” her husband told her. He was more than aware of the problems his children were encountering. It broke his heart, but for the moment there was little he could do to rectify the situation. “You know why we can’t have Betsy removed from life support, Carolyn. I’d be facing life in prison or the death penalty.”
Carolyn Middleton climbed off the bed, pointing her finger at him. “I’ve been in prison since the day that child was born. Don’t forget that, Henry. You spent all your time at the business, building your empire, making yourself feel important.”
“I was only trying to make a livin
g,” Henry said. “I did it for you, Carolyn. I did it for the children. You wanted them to go to the finest schools. You wanted this expensive house. We’ve always had help. You make it sound like you took care of Betsy single-handed.”
“We don’t have help now,” she said. “No one wants to work in a house where someone is on trial for attempted murder, where every time they walk out the door, they have to worry that they’ll be assaulted by a reporter. Find a way to make it go away, Henry.”
He slumped into a chair, burying his head in his hands. A few moments later, he peered up at her. “How? Tell me how I can possibly make this go away. It’s too late, don’t you see? We have to ride it out, pray that you’re right and they don’t have the enough evidence to convict me. Fowler thinks the D.A.’s office may have only filed to save face in the community.”
Carolyn gave him an icy stare. “You’re good at solving problems, Henry. Isn’t that what you’ve always told me? Haven’t you always bragged that you can fix anything? Find a way. If you don’t, I will.”
BY NINE-THIRTY that evening, Dr. Christopher Logan’s impeccable appearance had wilted. Starting his day at four o’clock that morning, he had lost two patients in one day, both of them under the age of seven. His face was covered with day-old stubble, his white coat stained and wrinkled, his dark hair sticking up on top of his head. When he became overly tired, his speech became almost indecipherable. “I’m sorry,” Sister Mary Luke said, leaning over the nursing counter at Saint Francis Hospital. “What chart did you ask for?”
“Middleton,” he muttered. “Betsy Middleton.”
Sister Mary Luke appeared to be in her early forties, but having worked with nuns for a number of years, the doctor had long since stopped speculating when it came to age. Her face was round, her eyes clear, her skin unlined, her eyes a translucent shade of gray. “I checked on Betsy thirty minutes ago when we made our eleven o’clock rounds,” she told him. “Why don’t you go home, Dr. Logan? You’ve had a trying day.”
Buried Evidence Page 14
