What was he going to do now? He couldn’t sit back and leave Carolyn’s fate in the hands of strangers. They didn’t care about her. They were military—their primary objective was national security. He refused to abandon her, as he had his brother.
“Station two,” he said into the microphone, “get in touch with the rescue party from Vandenberg. Tell them to check near Naples Beach. I’m heading there now.”
Five miles down, he pulled off to the shoulder and stepped out onto the roadway. Carefully crossing the highway, he reached the cliff leading to the dark ocean. A gust of wind shot up the rocky hillside. He stepped back, realizing the risk he was taking. A fall could kill him.
His last image of Carolyn flashed in his mind. When she had glanced back toward him, he had seen fear and confusion in her eyes. Her beautiful dark hair had been framed inside the backdrop of the red Ferrari as she sped away.
Was she already dead? It was his direct order that set the events in motion. Her children would be motherless. How could he live with himself?
His decision was made.
He couldn’t wait for the rescue team to respond. In a situation like this, seconds could save a life. He stretched out his right leg, then planted it on the first of many rocks. He shone his flashlight downward, becoming light-headed. Although he had done everything possible to conquer it, he suffered from vertigo. He had fifty feet of cliffs, rocks, and sand to navigate. Fortunately, he could see an opening. Slowly he moved one foot after another, trying not to look down. Had he lost his mind? In the distance, he heard the whirling blades of a helicopter.
Hearing voices in the street above, he knew that they had found him. Looking up, he saw the flashlights pointing at him. His right foot slipped on the loose gravel. Reaching back, he tried to regain his balance. It was no use. His body slid down the rocks. He went airborne, crashing into the ocean. The waves tossed him around before sucking him toward the deeper water. Trying to find his footing, he discovered his leg was injured. He could see the flickering of the moon as the water lapped over his face. He knew that struggling would only deplete his energy. Gasping for each breath, he let the water take him.
The strong upwelling carried him rapidly down the coast. This was it, he thought, the sins of his life were finally catching up to him. Then his back hit sand. He’d washed into a canal created by a storm drain. The erosion from the runoffs had created a crevasse that led deep into the sea. In high tide, the water was forced toward land. He rolled over to find the beach. He could see the moon lighting up white water as it rushed in. Small sand crabs were digging their way back into the sand with each wave.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a piece of metal. Supporting himself with his hand, he reached out with his other and touched what looked like the door of the Ferrari. Once on his knees, he could see something else floating nearby. Shaking his head, he attempted to clear the stinging salt water from his eyes. It was a body. He struggled to stand, limping a few feet over until he reached her.
Carolyn wasn’t breathing.
Pain shot down his left leg as he tried to get her to the shore. He struggled in the ebbing shallow tide. Supporting Carolyn’s back, he placed his index finger and thumb over her nose as he began ventilating. Endless moments later, water spewed out of her mouth and she began breathing.
“Hang in there, Carolyn, I’m going to get help.”
“Don’t leave me, Hank,” she choked out. “I don’t want to die alone.”
“Then I’ll have to carry you.”
He reached down and picked her up, cradling her shoulders and legs in his arms. The FBI’s helicopter was flying down the coast directly at them. Walking in the wet unstable sand, his left leg gave way and he fell. The surf washed up and swept Carolyn out of his arms.
“Don’t let me go,” she yelled, holding on to his hand as the water fought his grip.
The helicopter was directly over them, its light illuminating the stretch of beach. His fingertips no longer had the pressure of Carolyn’s hand. She’d slipped back into the sea. Hank crawled toward the water. A wave crashed to the sand, consuming him. He flopped around like a rag doll, until it deposited him back on the beach.
Hank looked up at the barrel of a machine gun. “Stay still, sir.”
“I found the driver of the car,” Hank yelled, frantic. “S-she was here. The water took her away. You have to find her!”
“Spread out and search for a female body,” the officer ordered the group of five men.
Very soon, a voice rang out: “Got her.”
Epilogue
Six weeks later
It was a miracle that Carolyn didn’t die in the crash. Her movements were still limited. She’d suffered a severe concussion, a broken collarbone, and had fractured her left ankle. Alex Pauldine at CSI told her that the impact damage suggested the Ferrari had slammed into a rocky protrusion halfway down the cliff and flipped in the air. The car entered the ocean tail-first, ripping off the driver’s door, which Carolyn had managed to open. She never saw the Ferrari once she was in the water. The crash had thrown her away from the wreckage. Fortunately, Carolyn was able to survive by floating with the currents. She would never forget Hank’s face as he rescued her.
Carolyn was dressed and waiting for Hank to pick her up and drive her to the office for the first time since that terrible night. Rebecca and John had already left for school. She looked over at the flowers Paul had sent her, picking up the card and reading his note. He’d done everything he possibly could to help her and the kids, but he had secrets. Her personality was built on integrity; she couldn’t be with a man who didn’t share the same values. Paul hadn’t been honest with her about his past. Melody had woken her up to that unfortunate reality.
Carolyn had fulfilled her promise to Rebecca and given Paul another chance. They had gone out to dinner and things had gone well. Two days later, a package containing three CDs from Melody had arrived with more videos of Paul having sex with young women she assumed had been his students.
Their relationship was over.
Carolyn had spent six miserable weeks in a wheelchair. At her next visit, the doctor was going to remove the cast on her foot, and he had told her she should have full use of her left arm and shoulder again.
Hearing a car pull into her driveway, she struggled on her crutches to maneuver the door open. Hank got out of the van and limped toward Carolyn, a broad smile on his face. “Come on, old man,” she yelled.
“Who, me?” he said, looking behind him. “I’m not old, just beaten. You ready?”
“Absolutely,” Carolyn said with a voice of certainty.
“What’s going on with Melody?” he asked once they were on the road. “The man who shot her died a few days ago. I talked to the DA this morning and confirmed they aren’t going to file criminal charges against her. If she hadn’t moved everything out of her house before we arrived with the search warrant, we might have been able to charge her with illegal electronic surveillance and withholding evidence in a homicide. We have no proof that the footage of the Goodwin murder was made by Melody. I guess she recorded the video she sent you with Paul in it from another computer, or she didn’t film the murder. These days, there’re cameras everywhere.” He stopped and pulled out a toothpick. “At least she did the right thing by her father. You said Neil told you that once she’s fully recovered, she’s going to fly back to New York and testify in front of the medical board. Maybe the poor guy will get his license back.”
Carolyn said, “You haven’t heard the latest, then.”
“No, I’ve been tied up on that stabbing case.”
“Some of the documents she showed me were forged, Hank. She legally changed her name to Melody Asher, all right, but she didn’t have the woman’s consent. The New York authorities have reopened the case, but the real Melody Asher hasn’t been located. There’s no record of her having married and taken up residence in Israel. Scary, huh?”
“She may have killed that girl,”
Hank said, incredulous. “God, Carolyn, is Neil still seeing her? You’ve got to knock some sense into his head.”
“I’m working on it,” Carolyn told him. “Neil’s stubborn, Hank.”
When Hank parked at the government center, Carolyn’s eyes drifted to the windows of the jail. Moreno was dead, but there would be other violent criminals. She wouldn’t push her luck next time. It was a strange feeling being back at the building. Things had changed. She had killed a man; she would never be the same. The best way to put things behind her, though, was to get back to work. She could still accomplish some good in this world. She hobbled into Brad’s office and took a seat in a chair in front of his desk.
“Welcome back, baby,” he said, picking up a large stack of case files. “Ready to get back to work?”
“Do I look ready?”
He laughed. “You look better than when Hank dragged your ass out of the water.”
Brad had been a godsend. She didn’t know if she could have made it without him. He’d spent many days and nights sitting in a chair next to her hospital bed. What she had to decide was whether he sincerely cared for her or was merely an opportunist. Now that Paul was out of the picture, it had been the perfect time for him to make his move.
“Do you think they’ll convict Van Buren?”
“The case seems to be shaping up,” Carolyn said, resting the crutches against the adjacent chair. “I spoke to one of the federal prosecutors yesterday to find out when I have to testify. They caught a break. One of Van Buren’s men rolled over and agreed to testify against him. They found Dante Gilbiati’s body, the one who killed Moreno’s family and the Hartfields, in a grave at the Shady Oaks Cemetery. You know, that old place where the kids used to congregate on Halloween.”
Lawrence Van Buren had been arrested by the FBI and charged with treason, one count of first-degree murder as to Dante Gilbiati, and seven counts of conspiracy to commit murder, as well as murder for hire in the deaths of Laurel Goodwin and Suzanne Porter. He was awaiting trial in a federal court.
Brad made a paper airplane and sailed it at her, flashing a playful smile. “When are you going to be able to fool around?”
“You’re disgusting,” she said, scowling as she plucked the folded paper out of her hair. “All you ever talk about is sex and race cars. We’re at work, Brad. If we’re going to keep seeing each other, we need to keep a low profile.”
“Don’t you know when someone is joking? Oh, they said on the news that Interpol arrested that female assassin. What’s her name?”
“Claire Mellinger,” Carolyn answered, leaning forward. “When did you hear that?”
“On the radio as I drove to work today. Fascinating, really. Seems she’s in the advanced stages of multiple sclerosis. They caught her when she showed up for treatment at a clinic in Cannes, France. She has a kid and a husband. They say she can barely walk. How could she have killed anyone if she was in that bad of a condition? Because of the lingerie thing and the motorcycle outfit, we all thought the killer was a man.”
“Precisely what she wanted.” Carolyn was relieved Mellinger had been apprehended, but elements of the case intrigued her. “Charley Young thinks she was controlling the symptoms of her disease by taking a smaller dose of the same concoction she injected in Laurel Goodwin and Suzanne Porter. Remember, one of the elements found in the two bodies was a drug used to treat MS. Charley said the heroin and cocaine probably helped her to ease the pain and stay alert.”
Carolyn’s mind turned to thoughts of her mother. As per Marie Sullivan’s request, until her death, her father’s work in solving the Riemann hypothesis would remain unknown to the academic and scientific community. Carolyn hoped she could get her mother to change her mind before someone else solved it. Overall, though, she didn’t think her father had given much thought to winning a Nobel Prize. His satisfaction had been finding the solution to the problem.
She stared at the files on the corner of Brad’s desk. “Are you going to assign me all those? If so, I should get right on them.”
“Nah,” Brad told her. “I’ll go light on you for a while. When do you see the doctor again? The past six weeks have been pretty dry. I didn’t nurse you all this time for nothing.”
“Asshole,” Carolyn said, picking up her crutches and heading toward the door.
“That’s my girl,” Brad said, smiling.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The past year has given me a wide range of experience. My beautiful mother passed away. A new grandchild was born, precious Elle Laverne. I was remarried. My new husband, Dan, and his delightful daughter, Christina, are now a part of my extended family.
During the time I was writing this novel, I also underwent major surgery on my back. My oldest son, Forrest Blake, set aside his own work to lend a hand to his mother. Without his help, I know I wouldn’t have been able to deliver this book on time. I’m now completely healed, and hard at work on my next novel.
I would also like to thank my best friend and physical therapist, Heather Ehrlick, who came to visit me every day in the hospital as well as when I arrived home.
Many thanks to the entire staff at Kensington Books: my fabulous editor and friend, Michaela Hamilton, who always pushes me to go the extra mile; my publisher, Laurie Parkin; and of course, Steve Zacharius and Walter Zacharius. My agent, Arthur Klebanoff, for his efforts to organize and advance my career. My great family: my husband, Dan, who slept in the hospital beside me; Forrest, Jeannie, and Rachel; Hoyt, Barbara, Remy, Taylor, and Elle; Chessly, Jim, Jimmy, and Christian; Christina; Nancy Beth, Amy, and Mike, plus baby to come. To my sisters and brothers: Sharon and Jerry, Linda and John, and Bill and Jean; also my nephews, Nick, Mark, and Ryan.
Turn the page to read an excerpt from Nancy Taylor Rosenberg’s next thriller featuring Ventura County probation officer Carolyn Sullivan—
SULLIVAN’S EVIDENCE
Coming from Kensington hardcover in May 2006!
As the sun disappeared and darkness fell, death lurked in the shadows. Outside, the winds were howling, causing the shutters in the cramped living room to rattle.
Eleanor Beckworth headed to the bedroom to change into her nightclothes. Even when she wore her slippers, the cold hardwood floors chafed her feet. She was a petite woman. Her weight had never risen over one hundred and twenty pounds. When she was younger, she had stood almost five feet four inches tall, but now she was barely five feet. Age had not only shriveled her skin, it had compressed her spine.
Eleanor stopped walking, sensing something. The atmosphere in the room felt different. Was it a change in the barometric pressure? Maybe the storm they were predicting for tomorrow was moving in early. She hoped not, as her roof was badly in need of repair and the boiler was acting up again. Reluctantly, she had called her handyman, Mitch, today. She had space heaters, but she knew they weren’t always safe, and she was terrified of fire. Maybe Mitch could patch the roof like he’d done the year before.
Eleanor tried to live on the money she received from Social Security, which was barely enough to pay the mortgage and buy groceries. She had twenty thousand in her savings account and a modest amount of equity in her house. She had pulled out most of the money over the years, but she wanted to leave something for her granddaughter when she died.
Glancing at Elizabeth’s pictures lined up on the walls in the hall, she touched her finger to her lip and then pressed it against her granddaughter’s face. She’d raised the girl from the age of three after her daughter, Anna, had been killed in a traffic accident. Since she hadn’t married the child’s father, the young man had left town, never to be heard from again. Eleanor gladly served as Elizabeth’s mother.
Elizabeth was such a darling girl, Eleanor thought, but terribly unlucky when it came to men. Her granddaughter had dated one young man for five years, letting him live with her in her apartment. The man had never contributed a dime, worked only a day or two a week, and refused to commit to a permanent relationship. Elizabeth had finally
had no choice but to toss the freeloader out. Her little heart had been shattered.
Men living off women, Eleanor thought in disgust. She remembered the days when a man opened your car door, took you out for a nice dinner, and treated you like a lady. They didn’t swoop down like vultures on lonely women, use them like prostitutes, and then take off as soon as they got bored or decided there was nothing more they could take.
“Oh, well,” she said, entering the bathroom. She hung her clothes on a hook so she could wear them the next day, and quickly stepped into her blue flannel nightgown. Once she had removed her dentures and was bundled up in her bathrobe, Eleanor performed her nightly rituals. She checked to make certain all the doors and windows were locked. She watered the plants on a ledge above the kitchen sink, then poured out the pills she took every night and placed them inside a plastic lid.
Eleanor had always thought her granddaughter would marry and live close by. She glanced at the clock and wondered why she hadn’t called yet. They spoke on the phone once a week, and Sunday was her night to call. She rarely phoned Elizabeth, as the girl sometimes talked for hours. Eleanor couldn’t afford to run up her bill calling California, where she now lived. Elizabeth must have lost track of time. She was a computer technician and worked out of her home.
When the phone rang, Eleanor rushed over and grabbed it. “Is that you, darling?” she said. “I was worried I wasn’t going to hear from you tonight.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier, Mom,” her granddaughter said. Since childhood, she had called Eleanor “Mother.” “Matt and I had a terrible fight.”
Sullivan’s Justice Page 36
