“Who is this man?”
“My daddy.”
“Are you certain, honey?” the officer continued, exchanging glances with his partner. “Did you see him fire the gun? How can you be sure your father did these bad things?”
The girl stared up at him with a flat, unemotional gaze. When she spoke, her voice had an eerie sound to it, almost as if another person or a machine were speaking for her. “I know he did it,” Jessica said. “I know he did it because he told me he did. Is he going to kill me, too? Don’t leave me here alone with him!”
After Hank left the coroner’s office, he grabbed a cheeseburger and fries from Carl’s Jr. and wolfed them down in his car. A short time later, he rang the doorbell at the residence of Stanley and Jane Caplin. The day was overcast and the air was brisk. Their home was located in the marina and had a boat dock. The property appeared modest from the outside, but the land alone was probably worth close to a million dollars.
Mrs. Caplin kept the chain in place as she cracked the door and peered out. “I’m Detective Sawyer,” he said. “May I come in?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “Stanley has been expecting you.”
Jane Caplin was small, maybe five-two. Her body was reed thin, and her limp brown hair made him think of cancer victims. Her pain was so deep, the detective had to look away. The mothers seemed to suffer the most. There were two ways to deal with a tragedy of this magnitude—either find release through anger or throw yourself into a bottomless pit of despair. As time went on, the strong ones reached a level of acceptance. Judging from her anguished eyes, he doubted if Mrs. Caplin would ever recover from her daughter’s death.
They must have purchased the property twenty years ago, Hank thought. The furnishings looked dated and the floor was covered with shag carpeting. A day after Christmas and he didn’t see a tree or any decorations. He spotted some pine needles scattered across the tile entryway. They must have had a tree and then taken it down after Laurel was killed. There was nothing to celebrate in this house. Under the circumstances, a Christmas tree was almost obscene.
As the detective followed Mrs. Caplin down a hallway leading to the study, Laurel Goodwin’s life was displayed in pictures. He glanced at the smiling girl frolicking in a swimming pool, the teenager dressed for her first prom, the proud college graduate, the glowing bride, and finally the lovely teacher surrounded by her adoring students. Now she was no longer the dissected body in the morgue. She was Laurel.
The pictures suddenly stopped, just as Laurel’s life had ended so abruptly. There was a large empty space near the door leading into the study. Mrs. Caplin must have saved it for her future grandchildren. When one person was killed, the detective had heard, an entire world was annihilated. All the generations that would follow her would never be.
Hank felt an odd sensation in his stomach. Perspiration popped out on his forehead. The walls were dark wood and the hall was narrow and confining. Mrs. Caplin’s picture wall, he decided, had become a wall of sadness.
Stanley Caplin stood around five-seven and weighed over two hundred pounds. He was wearing a brown golf shirt and a dark pair of pants. A cigar was smoldering in an ashtray beside his brown upholstered recliner. No wonder he’d felt sick, Hank thought, shaking the man’s hand. He’d been so distracted by Mrs. Caplin and the photographs, he’d failed to realize how badly the house reeked of cigar smoke. “Can we talk outside?” he asked, pulling out a handkerchief and placing it over his mouth and nose.
“Oh,” Mr. Caplin said. “Don’t worry. I’ll put it out. It was too chilly to go outside. Besides, some of those newshounds might come around.”
Hank reluctantly took a seat on the sofa, folding his handkerchief and placing it back in his pocket. The man thought he could solve the problem by putting out his cigar. To get rid of the stench, the house would have to be knocked down and rebuilt.
He assumed Mrs. Caplin had followed him into the study. He looked back at the door and discovered she’d disappeared. “Doesn’t your wife want to be present?”
“Janie’s not well,” the man said, scratching the day-old stubble on his chin. “She’s been in bed most of the time since we heard Laurel had been murdered. She’s a wonderful woman. Laurel was our only child. Janie had something wrong with her fallopian tubes. It took us ten years and two operations before she got pregnant.”
Hank pulled out a tape recorder and placed it on the coffee table. “My memory isn’t so good these days,” he told him. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“No,” Mr. Caplin said, his dark eyes narrowing. “Did you arrest that Sullivan guy yet? Murdering son of a bitch. He killed Suzanne Porter, too, I hear. Her husband called me again last night. Young fellow. Taking it real hard. We both hope Sullivan gets the death penalty.”
The problem with the Porter case, Hank thought, was there was absolutely nothing to go on. The husband was at his office with ten other people, the house had been impeccably cleaned, and the couple’s friends and relatives said they were like newlyweds. Other than a six-digit stock portfolio and a lot of sexy underwear, the wife had nothing to hide. No former lovers, no enemies, no drug or alcohol abuse. Eric Rittermier, the neighbor’s boy, had looked promising as a suspect in the beginning. Even owned a motorcycle, but his girlfriend swore he was banging her in his bedroom at the time Suzanne Porter was killed.
He turned back to Stanley Caplin. “Tell me about your daughter’s relationship with Neil Sullivan.”
“The first or the second time?” Caplin asked, leaning forward in his chair.
“Start from the beginning.”
“Laurel was a good student,” he said. “Then she started dating Neil in her junior year in high school. We weren’t really happy about the situation. You know, her dating. The boy came from a respectable family, so we thought it was okay. Besides, he was kind of a prissy boy. Janie thought he might be gay.”
“What happened?” Hank asked, pulling out a toothpick and sticking it into his mouth. “Why did they break up?”
“I caught the little shit smoking dope in my backyard,” Caplin shot out. “He was giving drugs to my daughter. Laurel’s grades had started dropping. We didn’t know what was wrong until I saw it with my own eyes.” He sighed, his mind drifting back in time. “I put a stop to it. I forbade Laurel to see Neil again or I threatened to turn him in to the police. She buckled down and graduated at the top of her class.”
“When did she start seeing Sullivan again?”
“Sometime last year, I guess,” Caplin answered, shrugging. “My wife and I didn’t know.”
“You accused Sullivan of dealing narcotics. Do you have any proof?”
“Proof,” the man said, his voice loud and abrasive. “You’re asking me for proof? Didn’t you find a syringe in his bathroom? The last time I talked to you, you told me the coroner found a puncture wound on Laurel’s body and that might be what killed her. The piece of shit shot her up with something. The man lives in a million-dollar house and drives a Ferrari. You think he earned all that selling paintings? That art stuff is his cover. He’s a drug dealer. What more proof do you need?”
“We’re investigating all of Neil Sullivan’s activities,” Hank said. “If he was dealing narcotics, we’ll find out eventually. Sullivan said she was living here. Is that true?”
Caplin took some deep breaths before speaking. “She moved back in with us after her husband threw her out. Can’t say I blame him. I would have done the same thing if I was him.”
“Can you elaborate?” Hank said. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Caplin answered in a hushed voice, “Laurel was cheating. I never told my wife.”
Rats, the detective thought, seeing his case spin off in another direction. Adultery was historically one of the prime motives for murder. “Do you know this man’s name?”
Caplin was staring at the floor, lost in his thoughts. Hank waited a few minutes, then spoke, “Sir, I asked—”
“I hea
rd you,” Stanley Caplin said, picking up his cigar and clamping his mouth on it. “I don’t know his name, okay? You’ll have to ask Jordan. All I know was he was young, too young. Maybe eighteen or nineteen.”
“How long had Laurel been teaching school? She taught eleventh grade, right?”
“Yeah,” Caplin said, garbling the words through clenched teeth. “I know what you’re thinking, that the guy was a former student or something. I heard as much as I wanted to hear. When it comes to sex, a man doesn’t want to know what his daughter is doing. Jordan will have to fill you in on the rest.”
“The night of the murder,” Hank said, “you told me Laurel’s ex-husband had called you recently. Do you recall what transpired during that conversation?”
“First of all,” Goodwin said, “Jordan is still her husband. They split up two years ago, but their divorce isn’t final. Laurel refused to sign the settlement papers. She thought they could patch things up. I told her it wasn’t going to happen. She wouldn’t listen to me.”
Hank stood, feeling as if he were going to suffocate if he didn’t get out of their house. He’d have to go home and change his clothes. “I need to get in touch with her husband,” he said. “I also need the exact time and date he called you.”
Stanley Caplin walked him to the door. “It was about three days before she…” He stopped and wiped his eyes. “This is hard. Never thought I’d have to bury my daughter. When are you people going to release the body?”
It might be hard, Hank thought, but the man standing in front of him possessed the strength to go on with his life. The detective listened to every word that came out of a person’s mouth. In the span of a few minutes, Caplin had gone from referring to his daughter as Laurel to what she had now become—nothing more than a lifeless body.
“Things are backed up now due to the holidays,” the detective told him. “I was at the coroner’s office this morning. My guess is no later than Wednesday. I’ll call you as soon as I know for sure. About that phone call—”
Caplin cut him off. “Jordan wasn’t angry or anything. All he wanted to know was whether or not Laurel had signed the papers.”
“Did he give you a number where she could reach him?” Hank asked. “We’ve contacted the navy several times. They aren’t being very cooperative.”
“An officer like Jordan could be anywhere. With all this trouble with North Korea and Iraq, his location is probably classified.”
“Let’s just say he wasn’t overseas,” Hank said, moving the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “Do you think there’s any chance he might have killed her?”
“No,” Stanley Caplin said, shaking his head. “Doesn’t make sense. Jordan didn’t so much as slap Laurel when he found out she was sleeping with this idiot kid. Why would he want to hurt her now?”
“Maybe he wants to get married again and she was holding him up.”
Caplin looked the detective straight in the eye. “Your murderer is Neil Sullivan. If he’s not in jail by the end of this week, I’m going to kill him myself.”
“I don’t think you want to do that,” Hank told him. “Then you wouldn’t be much different than the person who killed your daughter.”
Caplin glared at him, then closed the door in his face. Hank stood there a few minutes, kicking a snail off the porch. It wasn’t uncommon for relatives of homicide victims to make remarks like Caplin had made. In most instances, nothing came of them. But there were also instances where people followed through on their threats. He hoped Stanley Caplin wasn’t one of the latter.
Chapter 22
Monday, December 27—2:00 P.M.
Neil had disappeared.
Carolyn had been at work since eight o’clock that morning. It was hard to concentrate when she hadn’t spoken to her brother since Christmas Eve. She’d driven by his house on her way to work. Several police cars and a truck from Leslie’s Pool Service were parked in the front. When she had tried to enter the house, an officer had told her to leave. She’d gone through the alley to the backyard, hoping Neil was hiding in the pool house. A different officer had sent her away, telling her they were still collecting evidence. She left when she saw a crime scene tech inside Neil’s studio.
She had set up an appointment for six o’clock that evening with Vincent Bernini, the defense attorney. She kept leaving messages on Neil’s voice mail until it was full.
Carolyn hadn’t left Brad’s office other than to go to the bathroom. Files and papers were strewn everywhere. When the records clerk delivered twenty new cases, she was ready to scream. Gulping down a cold cup of coffee, she began assigning cases as fast as she could. She didn’t have time to think about every assignment. If the officers had problems, they would tell her. So what if she gave one person more work than another? She’d handled twice as much as everyone else for years.
Carolyn was trying to stay focused on her work, but thoughts of her father kept surfacing. She remembered how her breasts had seemed to develop overnight when she was twelve. And they weren’t the swollen nubs most of her friends had. They were large and round, emphasized by her small stature. Her mother was completing her master’s degree in chemistry at the time, and too busy to pay her much attention. She was far too shy to ask her mother for advice. The boys had started to tease her, though, as her nipples protruded from her shirts.
Her mother’s bras didn’t fit, and she was afraid she would miss one if she took it. She’d been so desperate that she had stolen a garter belt from her mother’s drawer and fashioned herself a bra. Her mother didn’t wear the garter belts anymore, only panty hose. It was fairly easy, as all she did was cut off the snaps for nylons and stitched the elastic together for straps. The clasp at the back was almost the same as a real bra. The only problem was the fabric was too thin.
Her father taught math at the high school and got home every day around four. One afternoon, he took her to Robinson’s and pressed a twenty-dollar bill into her hand, telling her she could buy whatever she wanted. Then he told her he would meet her in the men’s department, claiming he needed a new tie. Money was tight then, and her father seldom wore ties to school. She knew he was lying. When she returned with her purchase, two white cotton bras wrapped in tissue inside the sack, she was terrified her father would ask her what she had bought. He never said a word, not even to ask for the change back. As they drove home, she glanced over at him, still waiting for him to say something. All he did was touch her hand and ask her if she wanted an ice cream. She would never love another person as much as she had loved her father that day.
Hank Sawyer appeared in the door to Brad’s office, startling Carolyn out of her thoughts.
“I can’t talk now,” she told him, turning back to her computer and trying to figure out where she’d left off.
“There’s been some new developments in the Goodwin case,” he said. “Thought you’d want to know about them.”
“Sit down,” she said. “And close the door. The records clerk forgot to close it.” She spread her arms out. “Look at this mess. First day on the job and I’m already behind. I can’t work like this, Hank. It makes me a nervous wreck.”
The detective had a smug look on his face. “I spoke to a man about an hour ago who swears Melody Asher is an impostor. But you’re too busy so I’ll…” He turned to leave.
At the mention of Melody’s name, Carolyn was enraged. When Hank reached the doorway, she shouted, “Get your butt back in here!”
“Okay,” he said, returning and taking a seat. “A man named Michael Graham called me from New York. He swears the woman we know as Melody Asher is his daughter, Jessica Waldheim Graham.”
“Wait a minute,” Carolyn said, trying to absorb what she’d heard. “You’ve got a crank caller on your hands, Hank. Don’t you screen for those kinds of people?”
“Don’t take this lightly,” he cautioned. “All Graham wanted was his daughter’s address and phone number. He was sentenced to thirty years in the joint because of his kid.
He thinks she can help him get his medical license back. That’s why he was trying to find her. He was a doctor, a cardiologist, before he went to prison. We confirmed this with the medical board in New York.”
“There’re plenty of doctors in prison,” she said, annoyed he was wasting her time with such nonsense. “I have work up to my eyeballs, Hank. Tell your stories to someone else.”
“Will you just listen, for Christ’s sake?” the detective said. “He’s not just any con.”
“Are you saying you consider Melody a suspect now on the grounds of what this person has told you?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” he said, speaking faster. “I’m flying Graham out here tomorrow. Even her father admitted she may have the capabilities to kill again. I’m going to pick him up at the airport, then take him to Asher’s house to make a positive ID.”
Carolyn swiveled her chair so she could look out the window. The fog hadn’t lifted and she saw several menacing clouds. Any minute, she thought, it would start raining again. She hoped John would pick up Rebecca from school. She hadn’t told Hank about the video Melody had sent her. It was embarrassing and she didn’t think it had any bearing on the case. “I don’t believe it,” she said, spinning back around. “Melody Asher is famous. Wouldn’t the real Melody know if someone was using her identity? What about the press? Dozens of articles have been written about this woman.”
The detective told her, “Graham says the girl found a loaded rifle in the garage and accidentally killed both her mother and brother. Then she lied and told the authorities he was the shooter. She was only nine at the time. Sounds like something Melody Asher would do, don’t you think? She also accused Graham’s brother of sexually abusing her, which Graham claims was unfounded.”
“Tell me more,” Carolyn said, intrigued at what she was now hearing.
Sullivan’s Justice Page 21
