by John Locke
Betty heard me singing in the kitchen a few days ago, and appears to have lost interest in using me for backup vocals.
The girls are working hard at the piano in the den, so the bodyguards open a dining room curtain to scowl menacingly at the reporters outside. Pat Aub calls and asks if I’m still planning to be in Cincinnati tomorrow to meet with the attorney to review Ben’s Last Will and Testament. I tell him that’s the plan, and mention Sophie’s coming with me. Pat offers to meet us at the airport and take us to lunch.
Pat’s a good man and a good friend, but I decline his offer. It wouldn’t be right to lead him on, since I know what he wants, and I’m not feeling the connection.
WEDNESDAY,
NINE DAYS LATER
WITH EACH PASSING day I steadily detach myself from the emotional connection I once had with Ben. I’d been living with a perverted monster, and have willed myself to hate him. I take great comfort knowing we never had children together. Though Ben left me the house, I signed it over to his son. I refuse to step inside it, even to retrieve my personal items.
Nothing sexual has happened between me and Sophie yet, and she’s gone back to sleeping in the upstairs bedroom down the hall just like she used to. That said, I’m starting to look at her a little differently. Last night when we climbed the stairs to go to bed, I accidently-on-purpose dropped a hairbrush on the floor, and peeked down her pajama shirt when she bent over to pick it up for me.
It was an experiment, to see if viewing her nakedness would have an effect on me. I could have gotten my answer by offering to have sex with her, but that would take us past the point of no return. The worst thing I could ever do to Sophie is wind up in bed with her and not be interested.
Since I’ve told you this much about the experiment, I suppose I owe you a summary of the results. When I glimpsed her breasts, my pulse quickened, and I felt my face flush. A few minutes later, I must’ve made a sound from my bed, because Sophie called out, “Is everything okay?”
Everything was.
TWO WEEKS LATER…
FUNNY HOW THE mind works.
You get a visit at your office from a guy like Roy who knows about your past. He makes some claims about your husband having a fixation on a fifteen-year-old girl, and even though you know it doesn’t make sense, he’s created a wedge of doubt because he’s right about you being The Little Girl Who Got Away.
Then you get a hinky call from ManChild, the killer-rapist you’ve been trying to track down, but that sort of call doesn’t fit his profile. Then your very healthy husband dies, after complaining about being “sick as a dog” for several days, and all this evidence turns up, complete with a dead girl’s panties and Ben’s fingerprints.
Everyone’s rushing to judgment, including you, because the cops and Feds are convinced, and that’s what they do for a living.
So you accept the fact you’ve been living with a killer-rapist and you’re glad you never had his children. Not that you can have children in the first place. But you’re happy to get it all behind you and move on with your life. After all, you’ve got a budding relationship with a wonderful lady with whom you’re falling in love. It would be so easy to buy the official explanations, and trust the evidence.
But what if Ben didn’t do it?
If he didn’t do it, shouldn’t his name be cleared? Doesn’t his son have the right to know if his father was a decent man?
I’ve never been comfortable accepting the fact I was living with a child rapist and killer. I know the family is always the last to believe their son, husband, or father was a killer, and that’s a good thing. But somewhere in all those assumptions and accusations, somewhere among all the evidence and fingerprints—the cops failed to ask me the simplest question. It’s the first question the police always ask on TV, the thing everyone in America knows you need when you’re accused of a crime.
An alibi.
No one ever asked if Ben had an alibi the night Jaqui Moreland went missing.
I’m sure I could call the police today, and they’d have a half-dozen witnesses who saw Ben in the area where Jaqui’s body was found. But if that’s true, it only proves how far the police are willing to go to perpetuate a fraud.
I was grieving and emotionally drained when all this was going on a few weeks ago. Between the Roy thing, the media circus, Ben’s book revelation, the threatening phone call, the evidence, the cops and FBI—it never dawned on me to remember where I was the night Jaqui Moreland went missing. I mean, it was so long ago, and Ben was never a suspect, so I had no reason to think about whether or not he had an alibi for that night.
But I now remember that Ben was ill, and I sat up with him because we were trying to decide if he needed to go to the hospital. When he went to sleep, I did, too.
In a chair in the same room.
Yes, he could’ve got up, got dressed, and left the house without me knowing.
But I doubt it.
And even if he did, it doesn’t matter because the police have always maintained Jaqui was abducted between ten p.m. and midnight.
And I sat up with Ben till one a.m.
So he didn’t do it.
I can’t prove it, of course, but that doesn’t make Ben a killer.
I press a button on my cell phone. Patrick Aub answers. I tell him my story and he says, “You’re right, they’ve got two witnesses. One saw him, one saw his car.”
“It didn’t happen, Pat. They’re lying.”
“Why would they lie?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the police coached them.”
“You’ve been watching too much TV.”
“Maybe. But I’m going to call for an investigation.”
“Why?”
“To clear Ben’s name.”
“It’s been a long time since Jaqui went missing. No offense, Dani, but I can’t remember what I had for breakfast, and that was three hours ago.”
“Ben was sick three times in the seven years I’ve known him. Once was just before he died, once was the night Jaqui went missing. I’m not mistaken.”
“When are you planning to announce all this?”
“I’m taping a TV interview next week for a special report. I’m going to tell them I don’t buy the alibi, or the evidence.”
He sighs. “You know I’ll stick by you no matter what, right?”
“Thanks, Pat.”
“But my bosses aren’t going to like it.”
“Tough shit.”
SIX HOURS AFTER speaking to Pat, Sophie says, “Remember Uncle Sal?”
I smile. “Things still going well at the deli?”
“He wants to meet you.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be with you.”
“No way I’m going to meet a mob guy! Period.”
“It doesn’t work that way, Dani.”
“What do you mean?”
“If Uncle Sal wants to meet the Pope on December twenty-fifth, the Pope cancels Christmas.”
I show her my frustrated look. “When is this meeting supposed to take place?”
“Four hours.”
“Where?”
“Cincinnati.”
“What? We’d have to leave this very minute.”
“That must be why the limo’s in the driveway.”
I go to the dining room, peek through the curtain. Then look at Sophie. “I pick one woman in the whole world to be my best friend…”
“Give it a rest. Let’s go.”
Four hours later, two goons escort Sophie and me into Sal’s social club. In the main hall we walk past an enormous box with a wide slot near the top that’s covered with angels, painted, it appears, by five year olds.
“What’s that?”
“Uncle Sal’s charity. It’s called The Mothers of Sicily.”
I start to say something, but Sophie says, “Don’t even.”
The goons open the door, and Sal jumps up from behind his desk and greets Sophie warmly. Then he looks at me and
grins.
“Now I get it!” he says, winking at Sophie. “I’d do her myself if I was gay!”
Sophie and I give him an odd look and he says, “Wait. That didn’t come out right. But you know what I mean. She’s gorgeous.” He looks at me again. “You’re gorgeous!”
“Hello, Mr. Bonadello,” I say. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“And manners, too!” he says. “It ain’t grandchildren, but it ain’t bad. You can bring her around anytime. Anyone has something to say about it, they deal with me.”
“Thanks Uncle Sal,” Sophie says.
To me he says, “Every Fourth of July we have a big picnic and pool party. You’ll come, you’ll wear a bikini, yes? Yowzer!”
“Uncle Sal,” Sophie says, “You might remember Dani lost her husband recently.”
“Shit. You’re right. I knew that. It’s one of the reasons we’re here. Still, she’s so…well, never mind.”
“Go ahead,” Sophie says. “Say it.”
“It’s just that aside from family, I only seen one woman in my life as pretty as you. But you don’t want to meet her. Trust me on this.”
Sophie says, “She’s an assassin from Vegas.”
“Hey,” Sal says. “That’s a rumor.”
“Right.”
He and Sophie talk about the family a few minutes, then he asks me some general questions to be polite. Eventually he gets to the reason for our meeting.
“You need to drop this business about the police.”
“What business is that?”
“I hear things.”
“Did Patrick Aub call you?”
He looks at Sophie. “Who’s that?”
“A local cop.”
“What’s his last name?”
“Aub.”
“What the hell kinda name is that?”
I say, “The world thinks my husband was a child killer and rapist. He wasn’t. He was a decent man. I’m going to clear his name.”
“No,” Sal says. “You need to let this thing fade from the—whatcha call—public consciousness. It’ll be better for all concerned.”
“Why’s that?” I say.
He looks at Sophie, then me. Then says, “What I’m about to say doesn’t leave this room, capisci?”
We nod.
To Sophie he says, “I’d feel better if you waited outside.”
“Not a chance, Uncle Sal.”
“I try to keep you out of the family business.”
“I know.”
He waves his hand at me. “She’ll probably tell you everything anyway.”
“Of course.”
He nods. “We know who killed the kid.”
I lean forward. “Jaqui Moreland?”
“Yeah. Killer’s name is Gray Halloran.”
“Who’s that?”
Sal’s desk is completely free of clutter, save for family photos and an ancient-looking phone with buttons across the bottom. He presses one of the buttons and says, “Send her in.”
Seconds later a goon opens the door and Carter Teague walks in.
“HELLO, DANI,” SHE says.
“Carter,” I say, trying to act nonchalant.
Sal stands. “My niece, Sophie Alexander.”
“The singer,” Carter says.
Sophie and I exchange a glance. There are only two chairs in front of Sal’s desk, but several more against the wall. All black leather with rollers. Sal scoots one across the carpet and offers Carter a seat.
Now that we’re all comfy and looking at each other, he says, “Tell Dani what you told me.”
Carter says, “The man you know as Roy Burroughs is actually Gray Halloran.”
“Did he teach drama at Riverton College?” I say.
She looks at Sal. He nods.
“As a matter of fact, he did,” she says.
“Whose idea was it to take the photos of me?”
“Mine. I saw it as a potential score.”
“But I erased them.”
“Yes. Shall I tell the story or would you rather keep interrupting?”
“Go ahead,” I say.
“The reason you and the police couldn’t catch Gray, he wasn’t a pedophile. It was never about Jaqui being underage.”
“What about his text message about her nipples being as hard as his erection?”
Carter frowns at my interruption, but says, “Gray followed that forum but never chatted on it, so those words were written by someone else. As for Jaqui, she was hot to be laid. When Gray read her public announcement about setting a date with one of the local boys on the forum, he traveled to the boy’s house and intercepted her as she crept into his back yard. The rest, as they say—”
“You’re telling me Roy Burroughs is ManChild?”
“That’s right.”
“That would have to be the biggest coincidence in the world.”
“How so?”
“Ben said he hired Roy—Gray Halloran, I guess—to pretend to be his old college roommate.”
“That’s right. Where’s the coincidence?”
“Out of all the people in the world, the one he chose to play Roy happened to be Manchild? I mean, come on! What’re the odds?”
“Pretty high, actually. Think about it. Jaqui, Gray, and Ben all lived in Cincinnati.”
“Fine. You’ve narrowed the coincidence to one million suspects.”
“Half of which are women.”
I roll my eyes. “So it’s one-in-five hundred thousand.”
“You think five hundred thousand men were sleeping with Dean Fitzgerald’s wife?”
“I certainly hope not!” Sophie says.
Sal laughs out loud.
I’m not laughing. It was Dean Fitzgerald who fired Dan from Riverton College.
Carter says, “Gray was sleeping with Patty Fitzgerald. The Fitzgeralds live in Clayton Court, which happens to be—”
“A half mile from where they found Jaqui’s body,” I interrupt.
“It’s also three blocks from the backyard where Jaqui was abducted.”
“Your point?” I say.
“At that time, Gray owned a green MGB. The night Jaqui Moreland went missing, a green MGB was seen parked near the scene by one of the neighbors. There were fewer than twenty such cars licensed in Ohio, and eventually the police contacted Gray and searched his car. They found nothing, but when they asked if he had an alibi, Gray said he and Ben Davis had been working on a project together.”
“Which was a lie.”
“Yes. On the chance the police might check, Gray called Ben and asked him to confirm his alibi.”
“Why would Ben do that?”
“He knew Gray was having an affair, but didn’t know it was Patty until Gray explained why his car was parked near the scene. Gray said if Ben didn’t corroborate his story, Patty would have to, and he’d lose his job and tenure. Of course, Ben would have loved to call Dean Fitzgerald and say, ‘Thanks for firing me. By the way, your wife’s sleeping with Gray Halloran!’”
But he didn’t,” I say.
This is the favor Ben told me about.
As if reading my mind, Carter says, “Ben agreed to provide the alibi, but as luck would have it, the cops never followed up. Still, Gray owed him a favor, because he got to keep his job.”
“So when Ben needed someone to break the news about my identity, he chose Gray, because he owed Ben a favor.”
“That’s right. Of course Ben thought Gray slept with Patty that night. He had no reason to believe Gray killed Jaqui Moreland.”
“So Ben had Gray play the role of his old roommate, and created a story that made it plausible how Roy could discover my true identity.”
“Exactly. Gray had been trying to talk me into dating him. When he told me Ben offered him eight thousand dollars to reveal your identity, I told him he was missing out on the big money. Nude photos of you would be worth a million dollars after your story broke. So we started dating, and I pretended to enjoy it.”
&n
bsp; Sophie says, “You’re quite the whore, aren’t you!”
