Guilt by Silence

by Taylor Smith

  The other woman nodded. “Ms. Bolt, this isn’t easy, I know,” she said gently. “Every time I see a case like this, it makes me sick that so many creeps do this to women and get away with it. But we’re gonna get this one—I can feel it in my bones. Will you help me?”

  Mariah looked around the room one more time and then nodded. “Yes, whatever it takes. Just tell me what you want.”

  “Okay. I checked the underwear for possible semen residue, but there doesn’t seem to be anything there. Since the creep never managed to get his pants off—which is okay by you, I’m sure—chances are we won’t find anything. But just to be certain, I’d like to take in the clothing you had on—the sweater and the pants—to examine them. We might find fibers from his clothes or hair samples on them, too. Also, if you can tell me where he kissed you—” She grimaced. “Sorry, that’s sure not the word for it, is it?”

  Mariah shook her head. “Not in this case—unless you call what a leech does kissing.”

  The other woman snorted. “Ain’t it the truth. Anyway, I’d like to take some swabs for saliva. This is just double-banking the evidence, of course, since we’ve got the bloodstains here on the carpet and all the way to the front door from that bloody nose you gave him.” She grinned. “Way to go. Hope you broke the son of a bitch’s face, pardon my French.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  “Okay, if you could slip those slacks off very carefully, I’ll bag ’em. Then we’ll go in the bathroom and take some swabs and a couple of pictures, if you don’t mind. I’ve already finished examining the bathroom, but I need to dust for prints in here, so I don’t want to disturb anything.”

  “Then can I take a shower?”

  Officer Harmon shook her head. “Better wait till you get back from the hospital. The car’s waiting downstairs to take you and Mr. Chaney. We’ll want you both to give blood samples there, too, by the way.”

  “Why?”

  “So we can tell your bloodstains from the perp’s.”

  Mariah nodded. She unzipped her slacks and stepped carefully out of them, dropping them in the paper bag that the officer held open. The policewoman sealed and labeled the bag, then put it aside and slid open Mariah’s closet.

  “Does anything look like it’s been disturbed in here?” Harmon asked. Mariah glanced at the neatly arranged racks and shelves and shook her head. “Okay, let’s get you something to put on after we’re done.”

  It was already dark when the police car drove Mariah and Chaney back to her house from the hospital. Yellow plastic barrier tape was still strung around the yard, but the command van that Mariah had seen when they left for the hospital was gone now, as were most of the curious onlookers. Only one other police cruiser remained on the road outside.

  They were led into the living room, where Sergeant Albrecht was sitting on the couch, making notes and drinking coffee from a disposable cup. The radio on his belt crackled periodically. When he looked up, his eyes were bloodshot and weary-looking, but he managed a smile. “Almost done here,” he said, “and then we’ll be out of your way.”

  “How’s it going, Sergeant?” Chaney asked.

  The sergeant’s lower lip jutted out and he nodded. “Not bad. We found a footprint in the bushes outside the garage and some matching muddy prints on the floor inside—looks like that was the point of entry. We’re going for a make on the shoe now. And there were some kids playing hockey outside who saw the guy—saw his bloody face and watched him drive off. They were able to describe the car—Japanese, sounds like a Nissan or a Toyota maybe, green, beat-up. We’ve got an APB out on it.”

  “Is there anything else we can do?” Mariah asked.

  “Not really. Oh, one question. We came across some hair in the kitchen trash can—black, curly. It’s obviously not yours or Mr. Chaney’s, and you said your attacker had thinning white hair. Any idea how it got there?”

  Mariah froze, staring at the sergeant, then her gaze shifted to the photograph on the wall unit of Lindsay and David. “It’s my husband’s,” she said at last.

  The policeman frowned and looked down at his notebook, flipping through the pages. “You said your husband’s an invalid in a nursing home,” he said, looking up.

  “That’s right.”

  “So how did his hair end up in your kitchen trash?”

  Mariah turned to face him. “I visited him this morning. I trimmed his hair and when I got home, I found some on my clothing. I put it there.”

  The sergeant said nothing for a moment, then nodded and snapped his notebook shut. He stood up. “Okay, I guess that’s it then. We’ll try to keep an eye on your house until we find this creep, Ms. Bolt. You should be careful in the meantime. I don’t think he’ll be back, but you wouldn’t want to take any chances. We’ll be in touch.”

  Mariah shook his hand. “Thank you, Sergeant. I’m grateful for your hard work.”

  Albrecht nodded and headed for the door. Chaney followed and let him out, while Mariah slumped into one of the wing back chairs in the living room. Chaney came back in and dropped onto the sofa. They listened until the cars outside pulled away and then he reached behind him and pulled out the envelope from his pants, dropping it on the table. It was curled and wrinkled.

  “How did you manage to keep that hidden at the hospital?” Mariah asked.

  “I wrapped it in my clothes when they left me to undress. It stayed in the examining room with me the whole time.” He leaned back on the couch and massaged his temples. Then he looked over at her. “What was that about David’s hair?”

  Mariah exhaled heavily. “I forgot about it. It came in the envelope, with the pictures.”

  “What?” Chaney exclaimed, sitting up with a start.

  “It’s a message. They’re telling me they can get to Lindsay or David anytime they want.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then continued. “Those phone calls I made while we were waiting around at the hospital—I asked the nursing home to move him closer to the nurses’ station. I also called a friend of mine—Lindsay’s baby-sitting his grandson—and asked him to go and get her.” Frank Tucker had been determined to come and get Mariah, as well, but she had convinced him that she was fine and to carry on with his Christmas party preparations.

  “A friend of yours? One of your spook friends?”

  Mariah sighed. “I’m no spook, Paul, at least not the kind you’re obviously imagining me to be. I’m just your garden-variety Company analyst.”

  “Really,” Chaney said dubiously.

  “Really. Most of us are just average Americans, you know, with kids and mortgages and flabby muscles. Ordinary people—not James Bond. Trust me,” she added, frowning, “if I had been a fully trained covert operative, that creep wouldn’t have walked out of here alive this afternoon.”

  Chaney watched her for a moment, then nodded. “No, I guess not,” he agreed. “So where do we go from here?”

  Mariah checked her watch—it was almost eight o’clock. “How do you feel about going to a Christmas party?”

  “What? You’re not serious. I thought we were going to work on this thing.”

  “We are, but I want to see my daughter first—she’s there. I want to take her some overnight things so I can get this place straightened up before she sees it.” She glanced around at the powder-laden surfaces of the room and at the bloodstains on the hall carpet that were visible even from where she sat. “And I need to talk to someone,” she added.

  “This is a Company party?”

  “Not exclusively, but the host is my boss.”

  “Is he going to be happy about seeing me there?”

  Mariah rolled her eyes. “Not particularly.” That was an understatement if ever there was one.

  “What’ll you tell him?”

  She studied him briefly. “That you saved my life. And do me a favor and don’t say anything else, okay?”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  12

  Tucker had obviously been watching for her beca
use the front door flew open while they were still at the bottom of the walk. His heavy black eyebrows were locked together and his endless forehead was corrugated with anxious wrinkles. He stepped back to admit them, nodding briefly to Chaney before closing the door and turning to Mariah.

  She attempted a smile, then gave up the effort and stepped into his awkward bear hug. She rested there a while, listening to the sounds from the living room of a party in full swing—music, tinkling glasses and laughing voices. The happy aromas of Christmas evergreens, good food and wine wafted down the hall.

  Finally, Tucker pulled away and looked down at her. “Bloody hell, Mariah,” he said gruffly. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded halfheartedly. “I’m okay. But I almost missed this shindig, Frank—that, and the rest of my natural life. If Paul here hadn’t shown up when he did—”

  Tucker turned to Chaney, his hard, black eyes scrutinizing the reporter. Chaney had lost his leather jacket to the police for evidence and was wearing the sport coat and tie he habitually carried around in his car for his stand-ups before the television cameras. He had regained his composure after the afternoon’s trauma and bore his usual air of calm self-assurance. He handed Tucker the mince pies that he had carried in from the car.

  Frank took them and set them on a hall table, then held out his hand grudgingly. “Frank Tucker,” he said. “I guess you’re the hero of the day.”

  “Not me. Mariah was doing a good job of fighting off the creep. If anything, she saved me—we were struggling for the knife when she attacked him like a she-lion. In the end, I think, he just didn’t like the odds, so he took off.”

  “You didn’t say anything to Lindsay, did you, Frank?” Mariah asked.

  Tucker shook his head. “No,” he said. “Carol and Michael and Pat know. We just told Lindsay we needed her help with the decorating.”

  “Good. I’ll tell her we had a break-in, that’s all. Carol’s okay to keep her tonight? I need to get my place cleaned up before she sees it.”

  Tucker nodded. “She could have stayed here, too, but Carol thought she’d have more fun with the baby. Come in and have a drink,” he added to Chaney as he helped Mariah out of her coat.

  “I think we could both use one,” Chaney said. He stepped out of the way, standing in the living-room doorway, waiting while Tucker hung the coat in the closet.

  When Frank turned back to face her, Mariah saw him frown at the wrap they had put on her sprained right wrist at the hospital. She was wearing a slim, black velvet skirt, but the bandage on her throat had obliged her to trade the scooped silk blouse she had originally planned to wear that night for a shimmery turtleneck sweater. She could tell by the warmth in her cheeks that her color must be feverishly high.

  She patted his arm reassuringly. “The other guy looks worse, believe me,” she said.

  Tucker’s frown only deepened. He glanced at Chaney, then again at Mariah. “I want to talk to you,” he whispered. “Alone.”

  She nodded grimly. “Me, too. But first, I want to see Lindsay.”

  He scooped up the pies, and led them both into the living room, where forty or fifty people were standing around in small groups, laughing and talking. Pat Bonelli was with a crowd from the office, but she detached herself as soon as she spotted Mariah, strode over and threw her arms around her. The two women hugged tightly. When Mariah stepped back, she could see that Pat had tears in her eyes.

  “Oh, Mariah! I can’t believe it,” she cried.

  “It’s okay, Patty,” Mariah said, touching her friend’s arm. “I’m not hurt, just really angry, that’s all.” She glanced around. “Let’s don’t make a big deal of it, okay? I don’t want to broadcast this, and I particularly don’t want to scare Lindsay.”

  Pat nodded, but Mariah could tell by her tightly pressed lips that she was overwrought. The tough ones are always such big softies, she thought, giving the secretary another affectionate hug. “This is Paul Chaney. Paul, this is my friend Pat Bonelli. We’ve been working together for years.”

  Chaney stepped forward and they shook hands. Pat was obviously impressed by what she saw, Mariah noted wryly as the other woman straightened and smiled, blinking away the tears in her eyes. Mariah shook her head. The Chaney charm—someone should bottle it. Tucker was standing off to the side, one pie balanced on each hand. He cleared his throat roughly and Pat’s eyes snapped away from Chaney.

  “Here, let me take those,” she said quickly, relieving Tucker of the pies.

  “I had planned another surprise,” Mariah said ruefully, “but somehow it didn’t get made—can’t imagine why.”

  “These look great,” Pat said, sniffing appreciatively. “And there’s food for the multitudes here. Our Frank really outdid himself. Come take a look at this buffet.”

  “In a minute. I want to see Lindsay. Do you know where she is?”

  “In the bedroom with Carol, changing the baby.”

  “I’ll go find them. Patty, could you show Paul the buffet? He must be starving. I forgot to offer him any food at my place.”

  Chaney smiled. “I wasn’t up for eating before, but I think I could be talked into it now. It sure smells good in here.”

  Pat held out her elbow for him as she balanced the pies, and Chaney looped his hand through. “Let’s go,” she said cheerfully.

  They headed off toward the dining room while Tucker stood at Mariah’s side, scowling. “I guess I’ll just fetch drinks,” he grumbled.

  Mariah looked up at him. “Be nice, Frank,” she warned. “I’m feeling unusually charitable toward him today, under the circumstances.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” he conceded. “But you’re not going home tonight, are you? You should stay here, or at least with Carol and Michael.”

  She shook her head. “No, I want to go home. I’m not letting some creep scare me out of my house.”

  “It’s not a good idea. He might come back.”

  “I don’t think so. Neither did the police, but they’re keeping a close watch on the place. And,” she added, “I won’t be alone. Chaney’s going to camp out on my sofa.”

  “Get serious! That guy?”

  “That guy saved my neck, Frank,” she whispered, eyes flashing. “And that guy came clean with me about Vienna, which is more than I can say for some so-called old friends.”

  “I was trying to protect you, Mariah. There’s nothing you can do to change what’s past, and the rest is being taken care of, I told you that.”

  “What does that mean, Frank, ‘taken care of’?”

  Tucker glanced over at a couple approaching them. Mariah recognized George Neville, deputy director for the Agency’s operations arm, and a woman she presumed was his wife. Mariah hadn’t been to one of Frank’s annual Christmas bashes since before Vienna, but this was the first time she could remember seeing anyone from Ops—let alone the deputy himself. “Later,” Frank whispered.

  “Well, well! Mariah Bolt, it’s good to see you,” Neville said heartily, giving her a peck on the cheek, which she had the immediate urge to wipe away. She’d only met him once or twice and was surprised that he even remembered her name—although, come to think of it, she thought darkly, maybe it wasn’t so strange. Neville’s manner was unfailingly smooth, his dress impeccable, his silver hair swept back like chrome fins, his smile permanently fixed. But the gray eyes above the smile were cool and appraising. The couple of times Mariah had met him before, she had always left his presence feeling that she had been probed and x-rayed.

  When he introduced the woman as his wife and she extended her hand, Mariah took it in her left. “This looks painful,” Neville said, delicately picking up her bandaged right hand. “Been beating off the media, have we?” Mariah felt a flash of anger but his expression was neutral, even faintly amused. “I noticed your date.”

  “He’s not my date. As for my hand, I slipped and sprained my wrist, that’s all. Nice to meet you,” she added, smiling briefly at his wife. Then she turned and gave Neville a h
ard look, retrieving her hand. Under the circumstances, she decided, this was as polite as she was obliged to be—rank be damned. “Would you excuse me? I need to find my daughter.”

  She made her escape and went in search of Lindsay. She found her in the master bedroom with Frank’s daughter, both of them occupied with baby Alex on the bed. Lindsay was stretched out beside him, tickling his fat little belly, while Carol busied herself with the diaper. Lindsay jumped up when she saw Mariah in the doorway.

  “Mom! You made it, finally! Where were you? I thought you were coming at seven.” Mariah hesitated, then crossed the room quickly, wrapping her daughter in her arms. She held her tightly and closed her eyes, not trusting her voice. Lindsay hugged her back, then looked at her, puzzled. “What’s the matter, Mom? Are you crying?”

  “Just a little, honey. I’m glad to see you, that’s all.”

  Lindsay spotted the bandage on her hand. “What happened? How did you do this?”

  Mariah took a deep breath, then grimaced. “I hit somebody.” Lindsay’s eyes went wide. “Don’t worry, sweetie. It’s like I told Uncle Frank—the other guy looks a lot worse.”

  “Who did you hit?”

  “A burglar.”

  “Mom!”

  “It’s okay, Lins. Some guy broke into our house and I surprised him when I got home this afternoon, that’s all. I’m not hurt and he didn’t get anything. Mr. Chaney showed up and we chased him off.”

  “Mr. Chaney? No kidding.”

  “Nope, and under the circumstances, I decided I’m going to stop being so rotten to him—for a day or two, anyway,” Mariah added, smiling. “I brought him along to the party.”

  “He’s here? Cool,” Lindsay said. But then a shadow crossed her features again. “Did you call the police?”

  “Yes. That’s why I was late. We had to tell them fifty or sixty times what happened and they took a bunch of fingerprints and stuff. They’ll get the bum, don’t worry.”

  Lindsay nodded. She lifted Mariah’s hand and examined the bandage, then looked at her with anxious eyes. “You’re really okay?”