by Jan Coffey
“She wasn’t too proud when she contacted you later, wanting money to take care of her brat.”
“My son,” he snapped. “She needed money to take care of my son. By the time she contacted me, she was desperate. And I had done all of this to her. I was the one who had ruined her life.”
“You didn’t pour liquor down her throat. You didn’t put needles in her arm or make her pose for disgusting pictures. You didn’t turn her into a whore.”
“But I did, Tracy.” Andrew ran his fingers through his hair. “Don’t you see? You’re doing it again. Blaming Becky, blaming everyone, refusing to admit that the true fault lay with your husband. If I hadn’t seduced that young woman, she would have finished her education and gone back home. She would have had a chance for a decent life—a husband, children, a future. But I destroyed that chance. I destroyed her.”
His voice was shaking, and he sat back in the chair.
“Even with the mess her life turned into, even with her addiction, the pornography, the prostitution, everything...I still would have divorced you and married her when I found out about Owen. But she wouldn’t have any part of that. Any part of me. Even as screwed up as she was, she still wouldn’t break up a home.”
Tracy’s voice was as still as a mountain pool. “After all these years, you still love her more than you ever loved me.”
“I was infatuated with her when I first laid eyes on her. Her beauty, her innocence, her youth. But like it or not, in my own twisted way, I still loved you. I continued to love you until the day you turned Owen away.” Her gaze avoided his as he looked across the room at her. “He had never done anything to you. He was only a child when I brought him home with me after Becky died. Do you remember that day?”
She was silent, but he knew she remembered.
“I told you everything that day. The truth about Becky, about Owen. I promised you I’d change. And you acted as if nothing had ever happened. As if I were some saint, and all my confessions were just made-up tales. Stories invented for effect.”
“You wanted forgiveness, and I gave it to you.”
“You didn’t give me forgiveness. You gave me denial. But what I really wanted was acceptance. Acceptance of my son. A home for him. But you refused. You treated him with less compassion than you’d have given a stray dog.” He rested his head on the back of the chair and stared blankly ahead. “Do you remember your threats? That if I were to claim him openly as my son, you would ruin him. You said you would tell everyone what a whore his mother was. That it was a lie that I was his father. Everyone would know, you said. You would torment him until he ran away.”
“It was just money what he was after. And you gave him plenty of it over the years.”
“For God’s sake, Tracy, he was only ten when I brought him home. He needed a family. A home. A real home. And you refused to let him stay. Money!” Andrew snorted. “God, it’s amazing that your bile hasn’t choked you over the years. Do you know why Owen dropped out of college the first year? Do you know why he moved across the country and tried to put as much distance as he could between us?”
Her chin lifted and she stood rigidly.
“He went away because he didn’t want my money. Because, like his mother, he was too proud to accept charity from a stranger.” He ran a thin hand over his face. “A stranger. I was just somebody who’d paid for him to grow up in good boarding schools. That’s what he thought of me all those years growing up. Not a father. Just an old man who’d been kind to his mother in her last days. Tracy, you kept my son from knowing his father. You kept us from being a family. And I let you. I let you.”
He turned in his chair and looked away from her. A knot rose in his throat that he thought would choke him. One small arm encircled his shoulders. She was sitting on the arm of the chair.
“He is a grown man, Andrew. He has everything he needs. There was nothing you could have done for him that could have been better than what he’s done for himself.”
He turned to her, shaking off her arm. Blue eyes, red-rimmed with anger, met hers.
“You still don’t understand. This is not about him anymore. This is about me. About me dying without ever having had the chance to tell Owen that I’m his real father. This is about me begging forgiveness of my son.”
Chapter 10
The deadbolt slid into place with a loud snap. Owen moved quickly across the room and closed the sliding glass door, locking that as well. Next, he pulled the cord for the shades, shutting out the light and the prying eyes of intruders—and policemen.
Standing in the protective darkness of his plush cocoon, he still had difficulty quelling the irritation Archer’s visit.
He went to his bedroom in search of Sarah, and crossed to the far side of the room. When he opened the door of the large walk-in closet, he first saw her suitcases piled up under his own hanging clothes. She was sitting, knees drawn up, her hands clutching the crumpled material of the suit she’d worn last night. Her face was buried in her knees. But as he switched on the light, her head lifted, her anxious green eyes gazing searchingly into his face.
“He’s gone.”
That look of frustration, almost hopelessness, that he saw in her expression quickly gave way to a look of relief. He stepped into the closet and stretched out a hand. Sarah reached up, and Owen pulled her to her feet.
“Thank you. It would have been much easier for you to turn me in.”
“I don’t know, if the rest of his department is anything like him, I can see why you don’t want to go to them.”
“Archer’s department doesn’t have the best reputation.” She followed him out of the closet. Stopping at the bedside table, she picked up her appointment book and closed it. “Too much temptation, I guess, with so much money floating around this town.”
“Have you had any dealings with Archer in the past?” he asked as they went back into the living room.
“Not with him directly, but I made a couple of his officers sweat pretty badly over a case about six months ago. The city settled and the case never went to court, but in the process one of them took an early retirement, and the other was forced to resign.” She sat down on the edge of the sofa and started her computer. “I somehow ended up with three traffic citations in the month following the trial. So you might say we are not the best of friends.”
“What was the case about?”
“Scaring the hell out of a fifteen-year-old girl until she couldn’t even remember her own name, never mind the name and description of the animal who raped her and the woman who set the whole thing up.” She picked up the newspapers off the floor and stacked them into a neat pile. “Of course, it was absolutely unrelated to anything that the young man accused of the crime was the son of one of the richest New Yorkers that summers in Newport. A man with a very large checkbook when it came to civic donations.”
“Did the cops intentionally scare her?”
“Absolutely.” She saw her briefcase next to his desk and retrieved it. “I was able to prove that this wasn’t a first for those two officers, either. They’d made a career out of taking that ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine a few steps over the line. That’s bad enough to begin with under ordinary circumstances, but this girl was the victim.”
“Did the guy who was responsible for the whole thing ever get caught?”
“No. We sued the department after the creep had gone free. The girl was a mess, having contradicted herself on a half-dozen points, so there was no case. I heard the creep is back in Newport this summer, again. After getting off so easy, he’s probably gone right back to paying that woman—or someone like her—to set traps for other young girls.”
Owen watched her drawn face as she tried to focus on the screen of the computer. She’d had no time to change into her own clothes, but guessing at her mood, how she looked was the last thing on her mind. “What happened to the girl?”
“She never went back to school, and then just took off for parts unknown this spring. Las
t time I checked with the family—which was just before my trip to Ireland—there was still no news of her.”
The two fell silent for a few moments. Then, Owen reached for a pad of paper and a pen and started jotting down some notes.
“Could I run something by you?”
She glanced up from the laptop.
“I know you believe somebody killed your friend, thinking it was you, so they could set up Judge Arnold.”
“So?”
“I have another possibility.”
“What?”
“Murder, Sarah. A frame was not the goal. Someone is trying to murder you, not someone else, only you. The fact that Judge Arnold is the number one suspect might just be coincidental.”
“What about the blood in his boat? That had to be planted there.”
Owen nodded. “True! Still though, when it came down to the actual hit list, you were the target. You were the one they were gunning for. Maybe you know something incriminating. Maybe you’ve already done some damage. There are some vindictive people out there.” He pushed the pad of paper across the counter. “Help me out with this.”
She slowly got up from the sofa and walked over to the kitchen. He saw her rub her arms, as if suddenly cold.
“List them,” he encouraged. “Cases like the one you just mentioned. Results that might have hurt someone. People whose lives were turned around because of something you’ve done. Most important, who might still think of you as a threat to them.”
“This is no one-page list.” She stared down at the pad.
Owen handed over the pen. “But I’ve already started the list for you—with the Newport Police Department at the top.”
~~~~
Between the Chinese antiques and the paintings hanging on every wall, the luxury condo could have been a museum. Not wanting to sound stupid, Archer fought back the urge to ask if all these pieces were originals. At the same time, he tried his damnedest not to bump into anything as he was led through the spacious rooms.
“Thank you for letting me stop by like this.”
“No problem, Captain.”
Hal Van Horn smoothed down the front of his white oxford dress shirt and opened the screen door. A light breeze carried the scent of expensive cologne back to the detective as the developer led him onto the balcony overlooking the busy harbor.
“It was lucky that you found me at home. I got in less than an hour ago.”
“I know,” Archer said politely, seating himself in a wicker chair that he was sure cost more than his own dining room set. “One of my men saw your boat dock at the pier and gave me a call.”
“Gracias, Maria. Desearemos el café, por favor,” Hal said to his housekeeper. She placed a plate of fresh pastries on the small table between them. “I’m sorry, Captain. I had no idea you were anxious to speak with me again. If I’d known, I would have sailed back from Block Island sooner.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Archer responded. “After all you’ve been through this past month, you needed to get away from Newport for a while. If there was anything urgent, we would have gotten hold of you out there.”
Hal’s expression was serious as he brushed off an invisible piece of lint from his tailored gray flannels. “There is no getting away from this for me. Sarah is still too much with me. Here…and here.” He touched his heart and his temple. “Actually, Scott Rosen encouraged me to take the entire week off. But I couldn’t.”
Archer watched his host pick up a pair of sunglasses off the small glass table and put them on. The breeze off the harbor played with the perfectly cut strands of the man’s wet hair. The reflection off the dark glasses now hid the sadness the detective had seen in the man’s eyes. Archer recognized Van Horn’s need to compose himself, so he refrained for a moment from asking the questions that had brought him to the luxury condominium.
“This trip to Block Island was supposed to be the one. I had it all planned. I’d picked out the perfect ring. Stocked the boat with her favorite wine. Had my secretary call the chef at the White Horse Tavern to plan just the right dinner for the occasion.” Hal Van Horn smiled bitterly at the detective. “I had every intention of sweeping Sarah off her feet this time. Four years ago, when we broke off our engagement, we were too young. We weren’t ready. But this time, I was sure I would win her over.”
Hal rose to his feet and walked to the railing. He stood for a few moments, looking out at the yachts lining the harbor.
“There is a rather large rock in a platinum setting sitting on the ocean floor about a mile northeast of Block Island’s Sandy Point Light. I stood on the deck of my boat and threw that ring overboard. I couldn’t stand looking at it, knowing that the woman I loved was out there in the murky depths of those cold waters. And here I was, just staring at this bauble…thinking if only…”
Archer fidgeted in his chair as the other man’s voice cracked. Hal Van Horn leaned on the railing and stared straight ahead.
The detective cleared his throat. “Listen, Mr. Van Horn. I really do apologize for breaking in on you. But because of the incident last night at the mansion, we thought it was essential.”
“What incident?” Hal turned his back to the rail. “Was there a break-in?”
“That’s something we are trying to determine right now. Evan Steele, the owner of your security service, tells us that, as far as he can tell, nothing was either damaged or missing.” Archer’s fingers inched toward the pack of the cigarettes in his pocket, but he stopped himself. “Do you know a fellow named Frankie O’Neal?”
“O’Neal?” Hal paused for a long moment, mulling over the name. “It doesn’t ring a bell. Why? Should I know him?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Archer took a notebook out of a pocket and flipped through it. “Mr. Van Horn, do you know if Judge Arnold or anyone from his office might have been in touch with any antique dealers regarding the appraisal of some pieces in the mansion?”
Hal removed his sunglasses as a dark patch of clouds blocked the sun. “Of course. But that’s old news. After my mother’s death, Sarah acted as executor to Avery’s estate. I know she approached a large appraisal company about putting together estimates of everything that was left in the house. My mother was a collector of practically everything. Estimating the values for a final settlement looked like it was going to be pretty much a mess. I tried to stay out of it as much as I could.”
“Do you recall the name of the company Attorney Rand hired? Or perhaps a contact name? Of course, I can always try to get hold of—”
“Island Antiques. My understanding is that they are the largest outfit of this sort in Newport. They appraise, as well as buy and sell antiques.” The housekeeper walked onto the balcony again carrying a silver tray with coffee. “I haven’t had any direct dealings with them myself in the past, but I know my company has used them a number of times in furnishing the model homes in our new developments. The name you mentioned, Frankie O’Neal, does he have any connection with Island Antiques?”
“We’re working on that.” Archer declined the offer of coffee and, seeing his host’s quick glance at his watch, rose to his feet. “Is it safe to assume that Attorney Rand’s work on your late mother’s estate was not anywhere near finished?”
“Considering everything, it is more than safe to assume that Sarah hadn’t even been able to scratch the surface of my mother’s affairs.” Hal led the way back into the living room. “Because of the turn of events, we still haven’t decided on an attorney who could finish what Sarah started. Just before I left for Block Island, I did have my assistant call Island Antiques and ask them to send me a status report. We also asked for the return of the keys to the house.”
“Any response from them?”
“I haven’t gone through my mail yet.”
“There are a few messages waiting for you here.” Archer looked down at the blinking light on the answering machine.
Hal looked down at it, as well. “So there are. If someone need
s to get hold of me, they can call the office or call back when I’m here.”
“If you don’t like having answering machine, why have it?”
“Sarah bought this one for me. She was the only one who I’d check the messages for. Hell, hers were the only phone calls I always returned.” Hal started toward the door of the apartment. “But don’t worry, Captain. You can get hold of me at my office anytime. I have a live assistant there who takes my messages. She’s a pain in the butt, but she makes sure that I return every call.”
Archer accepted a firm handshake from the developer by the open door. “One last thing, Mr. Van Horn.”
Hal waited, a polite smile in place.
“Was anyone staying at your apartment last night?”
“Here? No. Maria is only here during the day and on evenings when I might be entertaining…which, by the way, are not too many. Why do you ask?”
“There was a call made last night from the Van Horn mansion to this number, your private residence. I was just wondering if you wouldn’t mind checking those messages to see who made the call.”
“Sure, if it would help.” Hal glanced at the machine across the room. “But I’m sure the messages on it are only calls that have come in this morning.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Anytime I’m away, my secretary calls here first thing in the morning. She goes through the messages and empties the mailbox. You see, she doesn’t even trust me at home.”
“Then maybe you don’t mind me talking to her.”
“Of course not. I don’t mind at all. Her name is Gwen Turner. You can call her if you want, but I’d advise you to stay out of her path today. Between all the harassment from the media and me being away for most of this week, she’ll be loaded for bear.”
Archer stood where he was, looking at the answering machine. Hal shrugged.
“Okay, Captain. I can read your mind. Just in case Gwen didn’t get to it yet today.” He headed across the room, Archer on his heels.
