by Lonni Lees
“I can help you.”
There was a long pause and then, one by one, Maggie Reardon heard the locks being unbolted. The door opened a crack and Misty peered out.
“You can’t help something that’s already done.”
Maggie pulled off her sunglasses and showed Misty her bruised and battered face. “I have some small idea of what you’ve been through.”
“Come in.”
The two women sat on the white couch in the whiter room, Maggie wearing the physical bruises from her encounter with Marty and Misty wearing the emotional scars from an attack far more brutal than the one Maggie had endured. They sat in silence for a long time, except for the occasional expletive blurted out by the white cockatoo in his cage.
“I read the newspaper reports and I read the court transcripts and I understand what you’ve gone through.”
“He was a neighbor,” she said. “He said he wanted to borrow a mixing bowl, so I thought nothing of asking him in.”
“Go on.”
“Don’t tell anyone my name is Wendy Masterson,” she said, panic straining her voice. “He could find me.”
“It’s between us. I promise.”
“It was my fault,” she continued. “Not that he raped me, but...after he left I ran to the bathtub and I scrubbed and scrubbed his filth off of me until my flesh was bleeding. I wasn’t thinking of the rape kit or the evidence or anything like that. I just wanted to feel clean again.”
Maggie reached over and took her hand.
“The police did their job, Detective Reardon. They caught him. But the court...I mean, it was my fault that it was just his word against mine, I’d washed away the evidence. But the defense attorney.” Tears were running down her face. “He made horrible innuendos. Like why I’d asked him in and how I liked it rough and—”
”The usual,” Maggie said. “The courts still have a lot of catching up to do. A woman is raped in this country every two and a half minutes. The statistics are staggering, yet when a woman finds the courage to face her attacker she’s the one put on trial. I know, I’ve seen it too many times.”
“When they said not guilty he looked right at me. That sick smile of his told me he was coming back for more. I didn’t even go home. I cleaned out my bank account and went straight to the airport and got a ticket for the next plane out. I didn’t care where to.”
“You’ve allowed this monster to own your life, Misty.”
“He could find me, I know he could.”
“No, he can’t. I did some research. Your attacker was linked to the rape and murder of three women outside Hartford. He hanged himself while he was awaiting trial. He’s dead, Misty. He’ll never hurt anyone again. He’ll never hurt you.”
She started crying, loud and mournful sobs, gasping until she couldn’t breathe. Detective Maggie Reardon held the broken woman close to her and let her cry tears that were long overdue. She wept for a long time, until there were no more tears left to cry.
“It’s time you took your life back,” said Maggie.
“I don’t know how. I don’t think I can.”
Maggie took the business card from her pocket and handed it to her.
“I spoke to this woman and she will show you how. She works for the Center Against Sexual Assault and she’ll see you receive all the counseling you need.”
“I don’t understand why you’re helping me.”
“Because I care. You’re a free woman now, Misty Waters. You’re free to be whomever you choose to be, be it Misty Waters or Wendy Masterson or someone else entirely. You own you.”
Misty stared at the card in her hand.
“And you might consider getting rid of that bird.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
TO THE SLAUGHTER
The temperatures dropped as scattered clouds blocked the late afternoon sun. Maggie Reardon sat at her desk finishing up the day’s paperwork. She held hope that Misty Waters would call the number on the card. The woman’s eyes held less fear. And there was a faint glimmer of, what was it, hope? Despite not having yet solved the Armando Salazar murder, Maggie had accomplished something important. Something good. She leaned back in her chair, satisfied.
“Hey Irish.”
“Montana.”
“Man, you’re face looks like raw hamburger,” he said, eyeing her bruises.
“You come to gloat?”
“No, actually I’m here to call a truce.”
“A truce?”
“We’re fighting on the same team, Maggie. I want to apologize for giving you a hard time. I didn’t really mean anything by it.”
“It sounds like a bit of Aaron Iverson is rubbing off on you.”
He shrugged.
“I’m willing to put it behind me if you are,” she said.
“Friends, then?”
“Let’s not go that far, not yet anyway.”
“That’s a start.”
* * * *
Prowler sat on Maggie Reardon’s lap while she ate a donut and watched the early morning news. The cat licked up the powdered sugar that sifted onto her bathrobe. The heat had dropped ten degrees and there was a vague reference to rain in the forecast. It wasn’t carved in stone, the weather never was, but it was a step in the right direction.
“This is a tough one,” she said to the cat. “I thought Misty Waters was hiding something, but she was hiding from something. I doubt that she’s our perp. The two drugged up hippies don’t have motive.”
Prowler meowed.
“I know, I could’ve busted them for drug paraphernalia and I suppose I could have even busted Mary Rose, but why bother? No harm, no foul really. Jake and Mouse have enough problems and Mary Rose, well, I like her. So would you. You might even like her cat.”
Prowler settled into her lap.
“Calypso is too much of a scatterbrain,” she rambled on out loud, “although it wouldn’t be impossible. So that leaves Belinda Blume, Paloma Blanca, and maybe Rocco La Crosse.” There’s those little butterflies again, she thought, dismissing them. “If Barbara Atwell had motive I can’t figure it. Adrian Velikson definitely had motive. The oldest in the book. And then there’s always the unknown. The random element. But we’re narrowing things down.”
Maggie jumped when the cell phone rang. She reached over to the side table and picked up.
It was forensics.
“Reardon here.”
“I’ve got some results for you, Detective Reardon. Toxicology came back. Armando Salazar had traces of cocaine in his system and his blood alcohol was 0.10, so he was definitely flying high. And we were able to pull a few partials from the largest clay shard.”
“That’s great,” she said. The break she’d been waiting for. The prints wouldn’t necessarily be that of the killer but it was more likely than not. They’d only had a few pieces of clay to work with but they were, after all, fragments from the murder weapon.
The other end of the phone was silent.
“Yes?” Maggie said.
“We got matches on both prints.”
Maggie pushed the cat off her lap. She reached over for her notepad and pen and began writing.
Two suspects, two motives.
One dead body.
* * * *
“I’ll get it,” Barbara Atwell said to Adrian. “It’s probably another nosy neighbor. That yellow tape really brought the vultures out to feed.” When she answered the door she was surprised to see the detective standing there.
“I hope this visit means you’ve caught my Armando’s killer,” she said as she ushered Maggie inside. “I’ll never rest until he’s caught.”
“We’re close,” Maggie said, observing the exchange of glances between Barbara and Adrian.
“A cup of coffee?” Adrian offered.
“I could use one, thanks,” she said. “Black.”
Adrian retreated to the kitchen and came back with a steaming mug, hands trembling as she handed it to the detective. Maggie pretended she hadn’t noticed
and let the hot liquid burn across her tongue and down her throat, then leaned back in her chair.
“We’ve lifted a few prints from the murder weapon. Or what was left of it,” she said.
Again the two women exchanged glances.
“The murder weapon?” asked Barbara.
“We can go into that later. Adrian, would you mind coming down to headquarters with me? I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”
“Detective Reardon! Are you arresting her?” Asked Barbara, alarm in her voice. “You can’t possibly—“
”Barbara, be quiet, I can handle this,” said Adrian.
“No, I’m not arresting her. There’s just a few things we need to clear up.”
“And if she chooses not to go?”
“I can get a warrant, come back, cuff her and take her anyway.”
“Barb, I told you I can handle this.” Adrian shot a look at her that said shut up.
The two women definitely knew something.
“I’d appreciate your cooperation, Adrian. We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way.”
Adrian Velikson looked down at the floor and ran her hands through her short hair. Barbara leaned over and put her arms around her. “You don’t have to do this,” she said. “Just tell her no.”
Adrian pulled away from her and stood up.
“I’m ready to cooperate with you any way I can,” she said, holding out her tattooed arms. “Do you need to cuff me?”
“You’ve been watching too much television. We’re just going to talk.”
“Let’s go then.”
“I want to come along.”
“Stay here, Barbara. I’ll be right back.”
Barbara Atwell watched from the window and when the car pulled away, she retrieved her key to the gallery and walked down the stairs. Memories of Armando drenched in his own blood flooded over her as she entered the room.
Life would never be the same.
She sat at her desk and fished through the file drawer, then retrieved a stack of papers. She sorted through them and settled on the last page. She rose and walked through the rooms of The Mosaic Gallery, at the walls, the paintings, at a lifetime of work. She walked back to her desk and sat down. She picked up her pen, wrote something on the document and carried it with her as she walked back up the stairs.
* * * *
Detective Maggie Reardon walked Adrian Velikson down the long hallway at the police station. Jerry Montana spotted her and rushed up, pulling her aside.
“What is it, Montana? If you haven’t noticed, I’m a little busy right now.
“I was just wondering,” he whispered, “if you need somebody to help you play good cop/bad cop.”
“I’ve got it under control,” she said, “but thanks. I’ll buzz you if it comes to that.”
“I’m really good at playing bad cop.” He smiled, and walked away.
She led Adrian through the door, shutting it behind them.
Detective Maggie Reardon and Adrian Velikson sat across the table from each other in the interrogation room. Maggie turned on the tape player to record their conversation. She looked up at the corner of the ceiling to double-check that the video camera had been activated. It’s red light winked back at her. Adrian stared at her hands then looked around the room.
“I’ve asked some of these questions before, but I’d like to go over them again. Why don’t we start with your relationship with Barbara Atwell.”
“What do you want to know?”
“What do you want to tell me?”
“You know everything, detective. We’re friends. We’re soul mates.”
“And her marriage to Armando?”
“I learned to accept it.”
“The night of the reception, what time did you leave?”
“When it closed, I’ve already told you.”
“And you went straight home?”
“Yes.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“Not unless you want to count the gang-wannabees that hang out in front of my apartment building. I doubt you’d consider them credible witnesses.”
“And the last time you saw Armando?”
“When I found him dead. Detective, you should be looking for someone intent on robbing the gallery. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“It might if something had been stolen.”
“The Gaia statue was stolen,” she said.
“Before we continue I need to inform you that you have the right to an attorney,” Maggie said and reeled off the Miranda Rights to the woman across from her. “Do you understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“And you’re willing to continue?”
“Yes.”
“I think you know who the murderer was.”
Adrian fidgeted, shifted her weight, looked around the room to avoid eye contact with Maggie. Then she straightened up in her chair.
“I killed him,” she said.
That wasn’t the response Maggie had expected. Not yet anyway. The tough little woman folded like she’d been under water torture, catching Maggie by surprise.
“Because?” she asked.
“I was tired of sharing, you can understand that. He was in the way. Is that all?” Her voice was controlled, her demeanor calm.
This was easy. Maybe too easy.
“The murder weapon?”
“What?”
“What did you use to kill him?”
“I hit him over the head. Hard.”
“With what?”
“I can’t remember,” she said. “It all happened so fast.”
“We have your prints on the murder weapon,” Maggie said.
“Well, I just told you I killed him, didn’t I?”
“But you can’t remember with what?”
“I guess you’ll have to refresh my memory. Better yet, why don’t you just book me and get this over with? I’ve held this inside long enough. I’ve confessed and I’m ready to accept my punishment. That’s all you need.” Then she added: “I’m tired of talking to you, detective.”
“Just one more question,” Maggie said.
There was a knock on the interrogation room door.
“Just a minute,” Maggie said as she rose and crossed the room.
When she opened the door Jerry Montana stood there.
“Could you come out here for a minute?” he asked.
“I hope this is important.”
“Oh, it’s interesting,” he said with his usual smirk.
“Stay put Adrian,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
“Do I look like I’m going anywhere?” she said, looking up at the surveillance camera.
Maggie stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
“What is it, Jerry?”
“We’ve got a real looker up at the front desk. Tall, pretty blonde says she needs to talk to you. Name’s Barbara Atwell. That’s your widow from the gallery, isn’t it?”
Maggie nodded.
“Anyway, she’s all frantic and says it’s important. I told her you were busy, but—”
Detective Reardon headed for the front desk and Jerry followed, not wanting to miss any of the action. Heck, maybe he could end up consoling the grieving widow, who knows?
“Barbara, I’m busy right now,” Maggie said to her. “If you could wait here, I’ll get to you shortly.”
“This can’t wait, detective.”
“Why?”
“I need to see Adrian. And I have something I need to tell you.”
“Let’s go then, but this had better be important.”
Maggie motioned Jerry Montana to back off and give her some space. He watched as the two women walked down the hall to the interrogation room. Adrian turned and rose from her chair as Barbara rushed through the door and embraced her.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Adrian said.
“Enough is enough.”
“But I’ve already told her what h
appened.” She held Barbara firmly by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I already confessed, so please. Just. Go. Home.”
“You two ladies need to sit down,” said Maggie as she pulled up a chair for Barbara. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
The two of them sat.
“Just shut up,” said Adrian to Barbara. “It’s done.”
“No, it’s not. I can’t let you do this!”
“I already told her that I killed him.”
“Detective Reardon,” Barbara said over Adrian’s protests, “I killed Armando. It was me.”
Was Barbara protecting Adrian or was it the other way around? Maggie asked her the one question that Adrian seemed unable to answer.
“What was the murder weapon?”
“The Gaia statue,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Then why do you think we found Adrian’s prints on it?”
Barbara thought hard.
“I remember,” she said. “Belinda brought in the statue and sat it on the pedestal. I remember Adrian going over and lifting it, commenting on how beautiful it was. And how heavy. I’m sure that’s how her prints got there. As sure as I am that several other people touched it during the evening. It got a lot of attention.”
It made sense. The only other prints they were able to pull belonged to the artist, Belinda Blume. There were likely even more prints from more people, but a few small pieces were all forensics had to work with. And Barbara knew it was the murder weapon. So far, Barbara’s answers made more sense than Adrian’s but Maggie needed more. Barbara waived her Miranda Rights and chose to continue.
“Don’t do this,” Adrian said.
“I love you Adrian, it’s what I have to do.”
“I’m listening,” Maggie said. “Why don’t you start from the beginning.”
* * * *
The last of the customers left the gallery and Barbara Atwell locked the door. Armando walked over and gave her a kiss.
“I think it went well,” he said as they walked into the far room. “I sold many tonight.”
“Why don’t we go upstairs and catch up with other things?” she suggested.
“Mañana, my love, tonight I am going out for a while. And you need your sleep.”
“I’m tired of you always leaving me. Why can’t you stay home and give me what you’re giving every other female in this town?”
