“I don’t know, Max. Come sit down at the table . . . have some soup.”
Max walked around to the opposite side of the table and sat down. The smoke alarm went off, and he jumped, rushing to grab two towels. “Dad, something’s burning in the oven.” Max pulled the door of the oven down in one swift motion. Smoke billowed out of the oven. He fanned the air with the towel, until his father rushed over.
“Oh, crap, the bread is in flames,” Max said,
“I’ve got this, Max,” moving him to the side. “Open the windows and door. Dammit, I forgot the bread was in the oven.” He shook his head from side to side, reached over and shut the oven off, then switched on the exhaust fan and waited for the flames to die down. Once the bread cooled down, he tossed it into the garbage. Max stood at the back door and swung it back and forth trying to redirect the smoke.
“Nice mess I’ve made,” Jack said. “Okay, start eating, I need to call the precinct.”
“About Mom?”
“No,” Jack lied. He didn’t want Max to worry, but then reconsidered since he’d just punished his son for lying. “I’m sorry, Max. I just lied to you, and there’s no excuse for that. I am calling the station house to put them on the alert.” He noticed the frightened expression on Max’s face. “Son, please don’t worry. I’m sure, if something happened, we would have heard about it by now.”
“You really think so?”
“Yes, Max. I really think so.”
Jack returned to the table, and sat across from Max. He pushed his bowl to the side, no longer hungry and reached out to pat Max’s hand. “They’re on the lookout for Mom’s car. They promised to call me later, but Mom will probably be home in a little while anyway, and all this worry will have been for nothing.” He lowered his head to look into Max’s eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, Dad. I’m okay. Mom’s going to be fine,” Max reassured.
When Max finished his dinner, Jack stood to clean the kitchen. “Have you finished your homework, Max?”
“No.”
“Okay, go upstairs and get it done.” He listened as Max bounded the stairs, and continued to scan the kitchen for a note. When he finished, he draped the dishtowel over the handle of the oven and headed for the living room. He walked to the wicker basket and pulled a magazine from the pile and leafed through it, trying to distract himself, and noticed one of the pages was caught on something. He opened to the page and noticed a block had been cut out. Figuring Ginny had cut out a coupon, he put the magazine down and picked up another and leafed through. It was the same thing. Blocks on several pages had been cut out.
“Oh, dear God,” he gasped, his heart racing out of control, “please tell me what I’m thinking is crazy.”
28
Jessie unlocked the door to her apartment and sashayed across the room, struggling to get to the table with the heavy bag of groceries. Tonight she was hanging out in her apartment to clear her head, away from any outside influences.
A quick glance around the apartment and she shook her head in disgust. It was such a mess. The folded pile of clothing on the chair had dwindled down too quickly, and she was running out of things to wear. She placed the bag on the table, dropping the pile of mail and keys from her hand next to it. Right now, the only thought on her mind was a glass of Pinot from the bottle sitting on the counter. Exhausted, she ambled toward the cupboard and grabbed a wine glass, filled it to the brim and sipped it with great delight.
The red wine was just what the doctor had ordered. She slowly made her way across the room to the overstuffed, comfy armchair. She’d always hated the chair because of its large floral print splashed with colors that matched nothing in her apartment. But it was all she had left of her deceased mother.
Setting her drink down on the end table, she removed her shoulder holster and belt, hanging them on the corner of the chair, then kicked off her shoes. Flopping down on the chair, she propped her feet up on the coffee table and reached for the glass. “What a day,” she said aloud, releasing a heavy sigh, then tipped the glass to her lips allowing the wine to linger on her tongue awhile.
A yawn escaped her mouth and she closed her eyes, resting her head against the cushion to quiet her over-active mind. She was tired and really didn’t want to think about anything, but it was difficult to shut down after the kind of day she’d had. At least she was alone in her apartment without the pandemonium that surrounded her during the day, drinking wine and sitting in a comfy chair.
Her thoughts returned to Patrick Sawyer’s upcoming trial. How much more evidence did they need to collect before Sawyer’s fate would be sealed? They could definitely prove the murders even though they’d never found Amanda’s body—Vito’s testimony would handle that. Knowing Alan Gerard’s reputation meant Samantha Richards needed all the ammunition she could get, and it was their job to see that she had it. But was Samantha good enough to win against Alan? He had a lot more experience than she, and from the articles Jessie had read, Alan Gerard was very clever. There was no question he’d try to divert the focus off his client’s offenses onto something else. Word had it that he was a master of diversion.
She scrubbed a hand over her face. Why did she always put so much pressure on herself? Because she needed to be perfect—that’s why. Jessie wondered if winning this case would show her peers she wasn’t this dreadful woman they thought was dating her married boss. She shook her head.
How quickly things had changed once the rumor mill started up again. Too bad they’d missed the part about it being before he was married? How ridiculous. Couldn’t they see that Harwell wasn’t treating her any differently than he did them? But dating a married man? Absolutely out of the question. Christ, she had her standards, and stooping that low wasn’t even in the equation. She shrugged. Regardless of what her peers thought, she had to focus her attention on collecting enough evidence against Sawyer because he was a bad person. But her insecurities began to creep in and she worried they wouldn’t be able to pull it off. Sure, Vito had come forward, but what if he backed out the last minute? He wouldn’t do that, would he? Would he survive long enough to testify? Was the safe house where he had been sequestered, secure enough? Her stomach recoiled, and she sucked in air, blowing it out in a steady stream to calm her nerves.
Cripes, if she was this nervous, what was Zach going through? Maybe Zach should recuse himself from the case. Considering the stature of Alan’s reputation, there was little chance he’d treat Sawyer’s case any different than all the others. If anything, the competition that was about to take place between father and son would be interesting.
But what if their evidence wasn’t enough. Alan was sure to shoot holes in all the evidence they’d gathered. That was his job. And what about the taped confession? Jessie blew out a stream of air again, relaxing her shoulders slightly and twisted her body to lay cattycorner across the chair, her long legs draped over the mound of the armrest. She forced herself to relax, inhaling and exhaling more slowly this time, and closed her eyes. Maybe she should consider passing on dinner and go straight to bed. No, she couldn’t go to bed now—it was too early. She forced herself to sit upright.
Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw the drape move. Had she left the window open? She smiled to herself, concluding the wine was affecting her judgment. There was no way she’d ever leave a window open. She remembered burning toast the other night because she’d turned the toaster setting too high. Had she closed and locked the window after the smell was gone? Too lazy to check, she convinced herself if someone were to come in, she had a gun. They wouldn’t get very far. She resumed drinking her wine, convinced it was the wind blowing through the cracks of the old window frame. She made a mental note to ask the superintendent to caulk the cracks and resumed her thoughts about the case.
The fact that the DNA from Jane Doe’s dress came back as ninety-seven percent positive to the DNA of Amanda Sawyer proved she was the victim at the bridge. But what happened to her? Had Sawyer found
out she was still alive and gone to the hospital to finish her off? Would the murder charge stick even though they hadn’t found her body? Lenny’s murder was a given with Vito’s testimony.
Maybe she was just being paranoid. But if she relaxed too much before the case was tried, they might overlook something really important. Knowing her partner, neither would take that chance.
Minutes later the drape moved again. This time, Jessie stood and ambled over to the window and pushed the drape aside. Her hand no sooner touched the fabric than she realized someone was hiding behind it.
The intruder leaped out to the side wielding a gun. Jessie gasped, her heart pounding ferociously against her rib cage.
“Surprise, surprise, bitch. This wasn’t exactly the way I’d planned to surprise you, but it works.” The woman stepped closer, her firearm now aimed at Jessie’s chest.
“How did you get in here?” Jessie shouted, the blood rushing through her veins while she feigned composure.
“The old lady downstairs let me in,” she snickered. “She thinks I’m your sister.”
Dread crept through Jessie for having given Mrs. Curly her apartment key so she could call her daughter. “What do you want?”
“What you’ve taken from me, bitch.”
What had she taken from this woman? The woman’s anger intensified, and she brandished the gun in an insecure manner. Jessie edged closer.
“You must think I’m an idiot, Detective.” She aimed the firearm at Jessie’s forehead. “Don’t you move another inch,” she demanded in a firm voice.
“Whatever you think I took from you, ma’am was decided by a jury, not me. I only did my job.”
“You still don’t get it, do you?” The woman shook her head. “That’s what’s wrong with you sluts. Now, get those friggin’ hands up in the air where I can see them.”
Jessie did as she was told, the wine glass still held in her left hand. Seeing the woman’s escalated nervousness, she took the cue and quickly tossed the wine into her eyes and watched the woman stagger back against the bookcase. With one swift karate kick the gun tumbled through the air and landed on the carpet in a thud. Jessie grabbed the woman’s wrists, twisting them behind her back, and dragged her toward the overstuffed chair for the handcuffs.
Exhausted from the ordeal to free herself from Jessie’s grip, the woman’s shoulders slumped and she sucked in deep breaths of air. Jessie tightened the cuffs leaving little room for movement. The woman cried out in pain.
“Lady, you’re in a helluva lot of trouble.” Jessie forcibly pushed the woman down onto the upholstered chair and grabbed her gun from the holster. The woman lowered her head and wept.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you pointing a gun at a officer of the law is illegal?” Jessie shook her head in disgust. “Did you actually think you could overpower a cop?” With her firearm pointed at the woman, Jessie squatted down to retrieve the gun from the floor. A tiny spot of orange peeked through the black tip signaling the Glock was a fake.
“You break into my apartment with a fake gun?” she shouted at the sobbing woman. “Are you out of your mind? I could have killed you.” Jessie’s skin pebbled from the chill skirting down her spine.
The woman continued to sob.
“Who the hell are you?”
The words were no sooner out of Jessie’s mouth then a knock sounded at her door. Assuming it was one of her neighbors who’d heard the commotion, Jessie checked the peephole. Harwell stood on the other side of the door, and suddenly she knew the identity of the woman. Jessie opened the door.
“Ginny,” Harwell said, rushing over to the woman. “For the love of God, what have you done?” The woman hung her head, and continued to sob.
Jessie’s heartbeat slowed down a few notches, although she was still puzzled as to what was going on. “What the hell is your wife doing here?”
Harwell took a deep breath. “Ginny thinks we’re having an affair.” He exhaled with exasperation.
“What?” She turned to Harwell. “You can’t be serious?”
“I’m afraid so, Jessie. Tonight, I was looking through magazines at home and found several pages with cutouts.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Jessie offered. “She could have been cutting out coupons for all you know.”
“No, I know. Ginny spends a lot of time in the attic. She has a trunk up there with what she calls her treasures. I went to the attic and looked inside.” He nodded in confirmation. “There were several magazines with cutouts. Ginny’s the one . . .”
“Lieutenant,” Jessie said with a sigh, her hand in a stop gesture, “don’t explain.” She shook her head. “Just take her home.”
“I can’t.” He turned toward his cuffed wife. “Ginny,” his voice wobbled, “I have to arrest you.”
“No you don’t,” Jessie said firmly. She walked behind Ginny and removed the cuffs from the woman’s wrists. “She needs help, Jack. Not jail time.”
“I have to do what is right, Jessie. Everything is on record.”
“Your wife is in a volatile state right now—counseling, Jack. That’s what she needs.”
“I’m so sorry, Jessie. I had no idea.”
“Jack,” she said, exasperated. “Please . . . just go home.”
Harwell nodded his head in agreement. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
“I know, Jack. Stop worrying about what happened and take care of her. She’s your top priority.”
Jack nodded again. “C’mon, Ginny, let’s go home.” The lieutenant and his wife brushed past Jessie on the way through the door. “You have to write an incident report.”
“What incident, Lieutenant?”
Harwell patted Jessie’s arm as he eased past her, his wife close by his side. Halfway down the hall, Jack turned to look back at Jessie and mouthed “thank you”. Jessie waved and walked back inside, thankful the fiasco was over.
29
“You look tired, Jess,” Zach said. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you sleeping?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” She kept her focus on the hustle bustle of the crowd on the sidewalk to avoid letting him get another glance at her. Ever since the episode with Harwell’s wife, she’d been keeping to herself, afraid of letting on about what happened. It wasn’t like she owed Harwell anything, but she didn’t want him to lose his job either. Harwell had worked hard to get his promotion. If he lost his job, he wouldn’t have any health insurance to care for his family. She shrugged without turning her head to face him. “Nope, life is good.”
“Oh, really? Then why are you looking out the window instead of talking to me?”
“Oh,” she lied, “there’s a fat woman walking down the street wearing a tight chartreuse skirt and orange shoes. A large crowd has gathered around her, but I can’t figure out why.”
“That’s bullshit! What’s going on?” he said firmly. “Did you receive another letter?” He pointed a finger at her. “And don’t you lie to me.” She didn’t respond. “Jess?”
Maybe telling him would make her feel better.
“Jess. Talk to me. Get out whatever is causing this depression.”
“I’m not depressed.”
“Well, something’s wrong. Tell me.” When she didn’t respond, he turned down a side street and stopped the car. “Okay, spill you beans . . . right now.”
Jessie forced the air from her lungs. “Okay, okay. I know who’s been harassing me.”
“Good. Who is it?”
“Harwell’s wife.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“She was hiding out in my apartment last night.”
“Holy shit! Why?”
“She was jealous and thought we were having an affair. She just lost it, I guess.”
Zach shook his head in disbelief. “You’re filing charges, aren’t you?”
“No. Of course not!”
He reached for her. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Jack’s got a ten year-old son.
Who do you think is going to take care of him while the wife’s in prison and Jack’s at work?”
“Family?”
Jess shook her head. “No. I know I don’t owe Jack anything, but his kid deserves as normal a life as he can get.”
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Are you okay?”
“I will be. So do you think we can just let this go and not discuss it again? I really just want to forget the whole thing ever happened.”
“Absolutely.” He watched her for a few minutes. “I’m so sorry.” He patted her hand, then put the car in gear and continued down the street. They drove in silence until she finally spoke.
“I’m actually feeling pretty good about the evidence we’re collecting against Sawyer,” she said, “and I’m praying Father McKinley will talk to us.”
“That’s wishful thinking. Haven’t you ever heard of the vow of silence?”
“Yeah, but that’s all for show, isn’t it?”
“Not hardly. When a priest hears a confession, regardless of what he’s told, he can never repeat one word of it. Compare it to the attorney-client privilege.”
“Surely God wouldn’t send him to hell for cooperating with the police by telling what he knows.” She frowned. “Would he?”
“Well, maybe not God, but he could be excommunicated from the church.” Zach pulled into the parking lot at St. Catherine’s and parked the car. A light rain misted the windshield. He looked upward. “I think we’d better make a run for the door. It looks like the sky is about to open up.”
“The vow of silence sounds like a silly rule to me.”
“If your attorney told the court something you confessed to him, how would you feel about it?”
“I’d be pretty pissed, that’s how I’d feel.”
“Okay, then, I rest my case. Why expect anything less from a priest? We’re dealing with a court of law versus the laws of the church. It’s the same thing.”
“Okay. Point taken. So why are we going to see Father McKinley?”
Killer Romances Page 226
