The Laura Cardinal Novels

by J. Carson Black

  Celebrities stayed here. The employees at the Inn were discreet.

  Laura found a table and watched the guests splash around in the pool. No celebrities popped out at her. Above the clay-barrel tile roof across the way, royal palms and Aleppo pines rose against the blue vault of sky. But despite the beauty of her surroundings, she felt a mixture of dread and grief. Dread that Angela Santero might kill again. Grief for Christine, forever her Broken Wing Sister. Grief for Jaime and his family. Even if Jaime recovered, he would never be the same. He might never be able to go back to the job that made him who he was.

  And now she was about to tell this woman that the daughter she thought had been returned to her was an imposter. She had to tell Nina Brashear that she and her husband had been scammed. Someone had come into their home, bringing with her a palpable evil.

  For the hundredth time, Laura asked herself how she had missed it. How had Angela Santero fooled her so easily?

  She heard the iron gate open and close. Nina Lantz-Brashear walked toward her, the sunny yellow of her suit matching the umbrellas and tablecloths.

  Chapter 43

  Steve awoke to the smell of bacon cooking. For some time now, he had suspected that the man was in his house. Living in his house.

  That was crazy, of course. But as he slowly swam his way out of sleep, he heard the sound of a gas burner turning on, a small whumpf, and a pan being set down on the stove.

  Jake, by the bed, did not move. But he growled. He growled low and deep in his throat.

  Steve got up as quietly as he could. Reached over for his glasses. Got out of the old double bed without making the springs creak. Moved silently across the floor. Looked back at the jingling sound of Jake's tags. He held out a hand: stay. Jake sometimes obeyed the signal and sometimes ignored it. This time, he put his head down on his paws, no more anxious than Steve to confront the ghost in the kitchen.

  Steve crept down the short hallway.

  The man was using tongs to remove bacon from the pan, placing the bacon on a doubled-up paper towel. The smell of bacon, the sizzling sound of the pan, the man's tuneless whistle—all of it made the moment so vivid that Steve could not look away.

  “Who are you?” Steve asked.

  The man's shoulders stiffened, but he didn't turn to face him.

  “Turn around and look at me,” Steve demanded.

  The man sighed. He set the tongs down in the sink. He started to turn around.

  That was when Steve awoke.

  The sun came through the window. It was late. Late for him anyway: nine o'clock.

  He had dreamed—that was all. But he knew that it wasn't all. It might have been a dream, but the reality he awoke to was not all that far removed. The man really was out there. He still roamed the woods around Steve's cabin, still sat at his picnic table, still walked in and out of the tool shed with impunity. Didn't matter that Steve had replaced the padlock; every time he went out there, the padlock hung askew, the lock open.

  The man might as well be in his house.

  Steve was beginning to think that the man who was so free with himself on his property was also the man who had killed Jenny Carmichael. That was the current theory at least.

  He wouldn't tell the detective, though.

  He didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of her. He found more and more of his time was spent thinking about her. It felt as if they had known each other all their lives. Ridiculous, but he felt so comfortable around her. Even though he was still a “person of interest,” he knew she felt that pull, the same as he did. He knew that in her heart she did not really suspect him at all. She was supposed to suspect him, so she did what she was supposed to do. But inside, he knew that she saw him as a good person.

  He wished he could help her find the man who did kill Jenny. He wished he could drop the killer before her like a cat leaves a mouse on the doormat for its owner. Signed, sealed, and delivered.

  If he could just get a look at the guy's face. But The Man Without the Face was too quick for him.

  Steve got the feeling he didn't want to show himself yet.

  Steve got up and went to the refrigerator. There were bacon and eggs. He didn't want bacon. The thought of that stranger in his house, cooking bacon—it was so real. Maybe it had happened after all. Maybe while Steve was sleeping, the man really had come in and cooked bacon.

  He sniffed the air, but smelled nothing. The frying pan was in its proper place on the hook by the cabinet. He reached under the sink and pulled out the trash can, half expecting to see grease-blotted paper towels, but there were none.

  Jake stood in the doorway, watching him.

  He'd forgotten all about him. Jake would have to go out. Since Steve usually got up at five or six in the morning, Jake was used to going out early.

  “Sorry you had to hold it in,” Steve said as he opened the door to the porch and then the screen door. Jake shot out past him.

  Steve watched the dog, feeling a vague unease. Jake seemed different to him. Steve watched the dog go from tree to tree, lifting his leg, scratching the ground, acting like, well, a dog. Steve, trying to pinpoint what was off about him.

  He looked the same. He was just as hungry. He was just as anxious to go for walks. He was just Jake. Except—

  Except Jake seemed a little cool toward him.

  Which was, on the face of it, ridiculous.

  But when he thought about it, he realized with a pang that it was true. Jake acted as he'd always had, but he didn't lie at Steve's feet anymore. He was usually in another room, not the room Steve was in. When Steve would call him, Jake would come running; he would be the same old Jake, but sometimes Steve thought that Jake was—

  Pretending? Shining me on.

  “Right,” Steve muttered. “My dog is shining me on.”

  When Steve was a kid, the family had owned two cats. One, very old. The younger cat had been her shadow. They’d always slept curled up together, a patchwork of black and gold. They’d always been together. Steve's mother had worried that when the old cat died, the younger cat would be broken-hearted. She needn't have worried.

  About a month before the old cat had died, the younger cat had stopped curling up with her. It had become clear she was distancing herself, to the point where it had seemed she was ignoring her former mentor completely.

  The old cat had died, and the younger cat hadn’t seemed to notice. She’d slept in the same places and filled the hole where the old cat had been.

  That was the feeling Steve was getting from Jake now.

  As if Jake had written him off.

  Steve was a great believer in the instincts of animals. Before the devastating tsunami of 2004 hit, the elephants had run to higher ground, saving their handlers. Animals acted strangely before earthquakes. They knew when trouble was coming. There had been plenty of scientific data that bore that out. And Steve knew from his own experience that Jake sensed any change in Steve's thought processes almost before they happened. Animals were the ultimate mind-readers.

  Steve called to Jake. Jake looked up, cocked his head, but remained where he was. Steve called to him again. Dutifully, Jake came trotting up. Not bounding up, as he usually did. And when Steve ruffled the stiff black hairs on his neck and told him what a good boy he was, Jake didn't react at all.

  Chapter 44

  Eyes obscured by dark glasses, Nina Brashear said to Laura, “I went by the library. I didn't see any announcement. There is no concert, is there?”

  “I want to talk to you about that.”

  Mrs. Brashear was drumming her fingers on the tablecloth. Laura reached out and took hold of Nina's hand in hers.

  Nina looked down, looked at Laura. “What's going on?”

  Laura could feel the beating of the woman's heart through her fingers. She was already frightened. Fight or flight.

  Laura debated coming right out and telling her. Decided it might be better if Nina Brashear made the leap on her own.

  “I want you to l
ook at something. Tell me if you recognize anything. Anything at all.”

  “What is this?”

  “If you'll just look—”

  Nina Brashear stood up, and Laura thought she had lost her. Then she sank down in the chair. “It's something to do with Micaela, isn't it?”

  Laura looked at her. The woman was more than flustered; she was on the verge of panic. “Mrs. Brashear, I just want you to look at this inventory of—”

  “Okay. Fine. But then I've really got to go. I have voice lessons later this morning and—”

  Laura pictured a voice student driving up in the middle of a SWAT team raid. “Can you cancel them?”

  “Cancel them?” She sounded confused, unsure of herself. This was a woman who had sung at the Met.

  Laura steadied her voice, spoke in low, soft tones. “Would you please look at this?” She pushed the trophy list into Nina Brashear's hand.

  Nina removed her sunglasses and looked down. She paged through the photos, stopped at the second to the last page. She said coldly, “What is this?”

  “You tell me.”

  Nina Brashear stabbed at the paper with one long, pink nail. “Are you playing games with me? These are Micaela's earrings.”

  Laura twisted her head so she could see. She had guessed they might be. They were butterflies, but instead of a central bug body, there was a white, Kabuki-like mask.

  “These are the Madama Butterfly earrings I bought for her when I sang at Covent Garden.”

  “You're sure they're hers?”

  “It was a limited edition made for Covent Garden. Made in the mid-nineties. How many other people would have them? It was her first real jewelry, she—”

  Her eyes widened. “What are all these other things?”

  From the horror in her voice, Laura knew that Mrs. Brashear had already guessed. Still, she said, “These are articles of clothing and jewelry a man named Robert Heywood took from his victims.”

  Brashear took a sip of ice water, her hand trembling. “You're saying, you're saying that all the people who had these things, all of them are dead?”

  “That is what I'm saying.”

  “But . . . ” She fiddled with her sunglasses, put them back on, pushed them up into her hair. “Micaela's not dead.”

  Laura waited.

  Suddenly Nina Brashear stood up, knocking over the water. “I'll be back, I've got to go . . . I'll be right back.” She walked off in the direction of the bathroom.

  Laura thought about following her, settled on watching the door from here. Eventually, Mrs. Brashear emerged. Walking into the sunlight, head up, proud, pulled together.

  She stood over the table as the waiter wiped up the spill and replaced the glasses. When he had gone, she sat down and said fiercely, “I knew it wasn't her. Somewhere inside, I knew.” She picked up a napkin, ran her fingers along its edge. “My daughter—Micaela—she's dead, isn't she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is she?” Nina hissed.

  “We think her real name is Angela Santero.”

  “How did she fool us? How did she know so much—?” She stopped, and Laura saw the horror on her face. Nina Brashear was very quick. “What does this mean?” she asked warily.

  This was so hard to say, but Laura had to say it. She had to make Nina understand how dangerous this woman was. “We believe that Angela Santero and her boyfriend, a man named Robert Heywood, kidnapped Micaela, and they killed her together.”

  “Together . . . you mean . . . ?” She stared around her as if trying to find something to help her assimilate what she was being told. “You mean she knew about Mickey because she was there when she was killed? That's how she knew so much about her?”

  “I'm afraid so.”

  “She remembered her kitten,” Nina said softly. “Max. She remembered him as a kitten. She used to call him milk-baby, because he liked milk.” Her face hardened. “Max doesn't like her. I should have known something just by that. He stays out of her way.”

  Once Nina Brashear started talking, it was as if she'd unleashed a storm.

  “I knew there was something wrong. Colin's hardly ever around. He said it was my imagination, but she couldn't have changed that much. She is so cold. Cold and selfish and cruel. It's like the opposite of the Midas Touch. Everything she touches, everyone she meets, they end up unhappy somehow. I thought I was paranoid, but it's true. Bad things happen just from being around her.”

  Laura steered her to the here and now. “Tell me what's going on in the house. Has Dr. Brashear left for the clinic yet?”

  She glanced at her watch. “I would think so by now. What are you going to do?”

  “We've got a SWAT team on the way. But we had to make sure that you, Dr. Brashear, everyone else is safely away from there. Does the maid live with you?”

  “Lourdes? Yes.” She seemed distracted. Laura could almost see the wheels turning. Clearly, Nina Brashear was thinking of all the ways, big and small, Angela had betrayed them. “She knew Micaela's favorite songs. She knew that she played T-ball—the name of her team. How did she get Mickey to tell her all that?”

  Laura thought it possible that Angela had gotten into Micaela's confidence by befriending her, giving her false hope that she would escape. It was just a guess, but if fit with the manipulator Angela was. “About the maid. Is there any way to get her out of the house?”

  “I could tell her to go to the store.”

  “Does she have a car?”

  “An old beater. Colin makes her park it around back.”

  Laura said, “Can you make the call? Try to be calm. Don't let on that anything is wrong.”

  Nina punched the number into her cell phone.

  Laura watched as she spoke to the maid. As flustered and angry as she was a few moments ago, her voice betrayed nothing. She told the maid she needed her to bring her a new blouse immediately to the Arizona Inn. That she'd spilled coffee on the one she was wearing. She described the blouse she wanted and reiterated—rather imperiously, Laura thought—that Lourdes needed to move quickly.

  “That takes care of Lourdes,” Nina said.

  Laura was impressed. Clearly, this woman knew how to handle emergencies and was a smooth liar. She imagined that her years on the stage helped a great deal.

  Laura said, “One more thing. Could you call Dr. Brashear and see if he's left the house yet?”

  Nina did so. She shook her head. “He's not answering. He could be talking to someone or his phone could be turned off. But he should have left by now. '

  “We have to wait for the maid to clear out of there.”

  Laura asked her about the layout of the house. As Mrs. Brashear talked, Laura sketched it out on her notepad, adding her own impressions of the rooms she'd seen. She got a description of Lourdes's car, a white Mercury Topaz, and the black Lincoln Navigator that Dr. Brashear drove.

  She opened her phone and relayed this information to Sergeant Brandon Cole of SWAT.

  “We've had our people around here since seven this morning,” Cole said. “Nobody's seen any of the cars in your description.” He went on to describe Nina's SUV, which they had seen.

  “Can someone go by and see what's in the drive?” Laura asked.

  “Can do.”

  Laura looked down at the sketch of the house. On the left was a detached garage with double doors. “Would the Navigator and Micaela's car be in the garage?” she asked Mrs. Brashear.

  “The Navigator would. Mickey—Angela—usually parks her car out front.”

  “Lourdes's car isn't visible from the road.”

  “No. Colin would be livid if anyone saw it. I still can't believe it. I can't believe how she pulled the wool over my eyes. We believed her completely. At least I did. Our lawyer wanted to test her for DNA, but she managed to convince me that would be a betrayal of trust.”

  “You had DNA? Of course you would. You'd keep her things, wouldn't you? Her baby shoes, her—“

  “No. We didn't. Six months to
the day Mickey disappeared, Colin had the room cleaned out and repainted, took all her things to Goodwill.”

  Laura stared at her. “He did that?”

  “He said we had to move on.” Her lips crimped into an angry line. “He said I needed to move on. He told me I was going off the deep end, that I needed closure. When I was out of town, he cleaned everything out. Everything!”

  Laura thought: The bad things people did to each other.

  Nina fingered the locket resting in the hollow above her collarbone. “He didn't know about this, though. I kept a lock of her hair.”

  By nine forty-five, both Dr. Colin Brashear's Navigator and the maid's car had left the Colonia Solana neighborhood, and the SWAT team was in place. Laura was on her way.

  By ten twenty, everything had changed.

  A fire truck and ambulance were parked in the driveway near Micaela's Pontiac. The SWAT commander met Laura in the driveway and told her what had happened. The SWAT team had already breached, only to discover that the house had been ransacked. Dr. Colin Brashear lay in a pool of his own blood near the kitchen door, shot in the chest at point-blank range.

  Angela had managed to drive out unfettered, because they'd been expecting Dr. Brashear in the Navigator. The Navigator had dark tinted windows. All Angela had to do was put her hair in a ball cap and no one would be the wiser. Although the garage was detached from the house, the few steps from the house to the garage were screened by a tall hedge of oleanders.

  Unbelievable. All that preparation, and Angela had still gotten away.

  Dr. Brashear was still alive, but barely. Laura watched as the ambulance pulled out, the light bar on the roof revolving.

  Angela Santero was in the wind; the mamba was loose in the world.

  Chapter 45

  Laura put out an APB on the Navigator. Sheriff's deputies were dispatched to the airport and the bus stations. Checkpoints were set up on I-10 at the Kolb exit going east and at Cortaro Road going west. I-19 was covered, as well as Oracle Junction and State Route 86. But of course, Angela could be anywhere. Tucson was a city of eight-hundred thousand people; it would be easy to lie low. Laura needed something specific, something to tell her where Angela might go. She called Nina, who was still at the Arizona Inn, and broke the news about Dr. Brashear. “He's at the University Medical Center trauma unit,” Laura told her.