Just do what you need to do, Bill had told her. Dad’s tough, and he’ll be fine.
Will Sullivan was more than tough, and he was more than fine. He was good.
Carrie had braced herself for a major confrontation. Accusations. Betrayal. Reminders of emotional debts never repaid. She never expected that the worst part of explaining her new job to Will Sullivan was that he would actually support her.
“If I’m not pushing my luck too much, can I ask you a question about the case?”
“I guess that depends on what it is.”
“Not the case, per se, but about Donna. All the other victims were pretty clearly immersed in the sex trade. Donna had a drug problem, and she was working at a gentlemen’s club, but I didn’t see any real proof that she was actually turning tricks.”
“Does that make a difference to the case?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe I just want to know, for me, since it was Donna.”
“Would it be cruel to suggest that if you want to know why Donna was targeted, you should ask your client?”
“Not cruel. I get it. I made the decision to work for Linda Moreland.”
His face softened. “Look, Donna was your family member. And there was a time, I know, when she looked out for you. I’m not saying a cross word about her, but she had a problem, Carrie, and you know that. It sounds like you’ve accepted the fact that she was dancing to support her habit, but you only knew that because she didn’t even bother trying to hide it. In my experience, the truth is always worse than an addict is willing to say.”
“But do you know? For sure?”
He held her gaze, and she could see the answer in his eyes.
“You saw it? Saw her?”
“Walking on Sandy, yeah, a couple of times. And the fact that she was found with those other girls in Conkling Park. Well . . .”
He didn’t need to complete the thought. Carrie had so desperately wanted to believe that her sister was different. That she was special. That there was some other reason she had been killed. But she was just another dead hooker.
“You still look miserable, Carrie. Maybe I said too much.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just, I—I feel so guilty, Mr. Sullivan. I didn’t know, I swear. I didn’t know you’d be in the middle of this. I should’ve realized.”
She had come here so she could tell herself that at least she’d been honest with him. He was treating this like any other case where the suspect says he’s innocent, but Carrie had seen what Linda Moreland was capable of. She’d weave the tiny squares of flimsy fabric into a quilt of deception. Even one tiny Internal Affairs entry—a moment of empathy from a father, extended to his son’s friend, as Mr. Sullivan had done so many times with her—would become a nefarious character trait once Linda Moreland got done with it. And meanwhile, Carrie was serving as Anthony Amaro’s personal driver.
“I don’t know what to do.” She was starting to break down, and he hugged her again.
There she was, trying to warn him that one of the most determined defense attorneys in the country was out to tear him limb from limb, with Carrie as her lieutenant, and he was the one comforting her. “Let me tell you something, Carrie. You and Bill were competitors. I know sometimes you feel guilty about that, but look at where he is now because of it. The two of you made each other better. Don’t you see that? And I know you. I know you in your heart. Maybe some other young lawyers would lose themselves to a person like Linda Moreland. But you take this experience—the way Bill took his—and you turn it into something wonderful. Because when people like you and Bill are successful, the world is better for it. And Hank would tell you the same thing. Don’t you doubt that for a second. Your father was a good man, and you’re every bit his daughter.”
Could the man be any more decent? She felt two inches tall.
Carrie had just beep-beeped the rental car’s doors when she saw Tim McDonough turn the corner. As usual, he was unshaven. His T-shirt, from the local rock radio station, was a size too small.
There were a few governmental departments housed there, but she had a specific candidate in mind: the Department of Probation.
“Tim,” she called out. “Is Melanie with you?”
“She’s at home.”
“Makes sense, since you’re the one on probation, not her.”
“What’s your problem, Carrie?”
“My problem is that you’re still Melanie’s problem.” She knew she was dumping her own frustrations onto him, but she couldn’t stop the words from coming out. “Don’t you ever wonder where the two of you would be if you’d never gotten married? She’s the best part of your life, and look what you’ve done to her.”
“Whatever.”
“If you were the least bit honest, you’d realize you’ve been dragging Melanie and TJ into a long, slow grave.”
Two steps toward her and he was suddenly in her face. She tensed up, ready for the blow. Part of her wanted to be punched. She deserved it.
“You talk about which one of us should be grateful to Melanie? Look in your gold-framed mirror, Queen Carrie.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He took half a step back. The bulging veins in his neck flattened. “God, this is so . . . you. You and your family have always treated Melanie like dirt.”
“My parents treated Melanie like a second daughter.”
“I’m not talking about your parents. Melanie knows you look down on her, like you don’t even have time for her anymore. She sees the way you eyeball our house like it’s not fit for Your Royal Highness.”
She had no idea what he was talking about. “I love your wife like a sister.”
“Don’t get me started on your actual sister.”
The mention of her sister seemed to come out of nowhere. “Why would you say that? Do you know something about Donna?”
“I know she was absolutely horrible to Melanie. Don’t you ever feel bad that you got a shot at a fancy college and she didn’t?”
Of course she did. She felt bad all the time.
“You think I got it because of Donna.” Did he know that Carrie thought the same thing? What had Mr. Sullivan just said about them being competitors? She, Melanie, and Bill had spent high school gunning for the same accolades, but in the end Carrie was the only one who applied for the big kahuna, the Morris Grant. By that time, she also had a sympathetic biography as the icing on the cake: Poor thing’s sister got murdered. “Does it really matter anymore, Tim? That was twenty years ago.”
“You don’t even know, do you?” He laughed in frustration. “Melanie had just gotten the news, and was all alone, crying in the waiting room at the clinic, afraid to walk outside because once she did, it would all become real. You know her views on the subject, so she was definitely keeping the baby. In walks Donna, and Melanie thought, Oh, someone I can trust. Carrie’s big sister. She figured, given her own problems, Donna might have some sympathy. But, nope, she was just as judgmental as you. She was horrible. She told Melanie, ‘How can you go to college now? How can you have a baby and still do all that work? Won’t you feel bad taking a chance away from Bill or Carrie, who actually have a shot at making it?’ That was your sister. That’s you and your family.”
“I—I didn’t know.”
“If Melanie’s never told you, it’s because—like always—she’s trying to protect you. But your sister crushed Melanie. She broke her. And worst of all, she preyed on that girl’s love—for you, for Bill, for our unborn son. So think about that the next time you feel like judging us.”
As she watched him walk away, she realized he might be right. She and Melanie had found their way back into each other’s lives, but all this time, Carrie had felt so proud to have worked her way out of Red View—and sorry for Melanie that she hadn’t. Now she was wondering whether she’d lost too much of herself along the way.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
According to police reports, Donna Blank’s
mother, Marcia Haring, was sixty-seven years old, but she looked and moved like a woman in her eighties. They had just watched her shuffle from her front door to her spot on the living room sofa, favoring her right hip the entire time. Her face was marked by deep vertical lines.
She sat staring at the view through the window, a row of mismatched trash cans in a narrow alley behind the house. “He’s out?” she finally said. “That’s . . . shouldn’t someone have told me?”
“It just happened,” Ellie said. “We wanted to notify you right away.” She wondered who was notifying the families of the other victims. She couldn’t believe how many fires they were trying to put out on their own. “He was only convicted of the one murder down in the city, so it’s still possible that he’ll be prosecuted for the other cases here.”
She explained that one of the hurdles was the newly discovered presence of DNA beneath two of her daughter’s fingernails.
“I’d like to think she’d be the type of person to fight her attacker. Hopefully she got a big chunk out of Amaro.”
“Absolutely,” Rogan said. “But the problem is that the crime lab has concluded that the DNA belongs to someone else. That’s why we’re so eager to know whether there might be some other explanation—someone else she might have fought with besides her killer. Did your daughter have a boyfriend?”
She shook her head. “Not to mention, if anyone raised a hand to Donna, she’d take them out. My baby was tough. Well, except for when it came to her own failures. When she started smoking pot, in the eighth grade, I tried to tell myself it wasn’t so different than what I was up to as a kid. But then a little pot became a lot of pot. And missed classes. And bad friends. And then it got to the point that I would’ve bought her all the pot in the world to keep her off the other stuff.”
“That kind of lifestyle can be rough,” Rogan said, “bringing rough people around. You can’t think of someone she might have struggled with?”
“She seemed good the last time I saw her. Told me she was going to her father’s. Guess she never got there, so maybe she changed her mind. God knows she wasn’t wanted there.”
“Donna was estranged from her father?” Ellie asked.
“No, but his wife, Rosemary, had no time for Donna. It was Donna’s own fault, frankly. She crossed a line there’s no going back from.”
Marcia’s eyes glazed as her thoughts went somewhere else. She didn’t want to remember the worst parts of her only child.
“I understand it’s painful to talk about,” Ellie said. “But, really, you never know what might help, Ms. Haring.”
“The fact is, Donna stole her sister’s college money. It wasn’t all that much, in hindsight. But Carrie—that’s Hank’s girl with Rosemary—had worked real hard to save it. Carrie gave every cent to Donna to go to rehab, but Donna just used it to get high. When Hank called and told me, I think it was the hardest I ever cried in my whole life, until I lost her, of course. But Donna knew she was wrong. She was so remorseful. She swore she was going to make it up to Carrie. She had so much she wanted to say, but Rosemary absolutely prohibited Donna from seeing Carrie again. I told her when she said she was heading over there that it was still too soon. I assume she realized I was right. I always wonder if that might have put her in a low mood. Onto the streets. And someone got her from there. Someone got my baby.”
“Did you know that Carrie is working for Anthony Amaro?” Ellie asked. “As his lawyer?”
The woman looked at Ellie like she was speaking in pig Latin. “I don’t think that’s so.”
“What about a detective named Will Sullivan? Do you know him?”
She nodded.
“Do you know if Donna knew him?”
“Sure. He’s got a son Carrie’s age. Basically a second dad to the girl. Hank passed not even two years after Donna was killed. We’ve had a lot of loss in this family.”
“But do you know for certain that Donna knew Sullivan?”
She could tell from Rogan’s expression that he wanted to tape Ellie’s mouth shut.
“I saw Donna getting in his car once. A Ford Taurus. Nothing fancy, but newer than most of the cars in Red View, so it stood out. Anyways, I figured it was another way Carrie had of trying to help her sister. I hoped it would work, but—none of us could save her. You know, maybe your lab can do some more tests. Maybe they made a mistake. It has to be Anthony Amaro, or else it means Donna’s killer has been out there all these years. That’s not right.”
No, Ellie thought, it wasn’t right.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
Rogan was flipping through his satellite radio stations, but she knew what was coming. A Marvin Gaye song ended his search.
“Why’d you ask Donna’s mother about Sullivan?”
“Instinct.”
“You can do better than that.”
“I think he’s holding something back from us. I know I put more stock in Harris’s statement than you, but you have to admit that any decent cop would have done something with a cellmate willing to report on a suspected serial killer.”
“Or maybe he didn’t give credence to a drug dealer willing to say whatever about whoever to cut his own time.”
“Whomever,” she corrected. “Whatever about whomever.”
“How about ‘whoever corrects my grammar again can walk back to the hotel’? Look, I didn’t say Sullivan was a good cop, or even competent. I’m asking you why you think he’s hiding something.”
“I can’t put my finger on it. Not yet. But I was right, wasn’t I? Donna’s mother saw her daughter in Sullivan’s car. What’s up with that?”
“Damn, Hatcher. You’re the one who grew up in Kansas. Don’t you see that everyone in Utica knows everyone? We know Sullivan’s tight with Carrie Blank. Why is it so surprising he’d reach out to her messed-up sister? I’ve been trying hard not to press you on the Max thing, but do you think it’s possible you’re almost looking for something to make this case more complicated?”
“How could it possibly be more complicated than it is?”
“That’s what I’m talking about right there. I think nine cops out of ten would look at this thing and say Amaro’s still good for it. He confessed. You talked to the eyewitness. His old cellmate is convinced he’s good for it. All this other stuff—Brunswick, the DNA, trying to poke holes in the old evidence—it’s smoke and mirrors. But Max can’t see it that way, because his boss doesn’t want him seeing it that way. And so maybe part of you hopes they turn out to be right. All I know is, I’m having a hard time figuring out one minute to the next where exactly you stand on this case.”
She wanted to tell him he was being unfair, but she knew he was right. One minute, she was seething about Amaro getting out of prison. The next, she was convinced she was seeing connections among Helen Brunswick, Joseph Flaherty, and Will Sullivan in police reports written when she was still in junior high school.
She was about to speak when Rogan turned the corner outside their hotel. The flashing lights of multiple marked cars flooded the street with color. A uniformed officer stepped forward to stop them at the parking lot entrance, and Rogan rolled his window down.
“You two guests here?” the officer asked.
Rogan said yes, and the officer waved him through.
“Impressive police work,” Ellie muttered as they stepped out of the car.
A mix of uniformed officers and plainclothes police were milling around the lobby, the crackling sounds of shoulder-mounted radios clashing with the piped-in adult contemporary music.
Rogan made a beeline for the nearest uniform, but Ellie wasn’t in the mood for another apology to Utica police for being in their city. She walked to the check-in desk and waved to the two clerks whispering to each other in the corner. “Sorry, but is there a problem here?” she asked. “I don’t want to stay anywhere that’s not safe.”
“Nothing to worry about,” one of them assured her. “A guest believes something may be missing from their roo
m. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”
Ellie heard the automatic doors opening behind her. It was Carrie Blank. She looked like she had been crying.
This really was a small town.
The clerk turned his attention from Ellie to Carrie. “Ah, there you are, Ms. Blank. Your friend has been trying to reach you.”
A man rose from one of the lounge chairs in the lobby, where he’d been talking to police. His once tidy hair was tousled and he was no longer wearing his eyeglasses, but Ellie recognized him as the assistant who had been glued to Linda Moreland as they left the courtroom.
“Carrie, oh my God. I’ve been trying to call you.”
Ellie noticed the attorney check her phone and then power it on.
“I’m so sorry,” the assistant continued. “That food—I think my stomach had a bad reaction. I was in so much pain. I just went back to my room to lie down. When I got back—someone had been there, Carrie. In your room. All that work I did? Everything is thrown on the floor, torn to pieces, a huge mess. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, Thomas. It’s not your fault.”
Ellie didn’t know Thomas from Adam, but even she could tell from his expression that, in fact, it had to be his fault.
The uniformed officer next to him explained the problem to Carrie. “Ma’am, we found the door to your hotel room ajar.”
He gave a sideways glance to Thomas, who continued the explanation. “I went into the hallway for ice. Cold water helps my stomach.” One hand touched his belly. “I flipped the latch so I wouldn’t get locked out. I must have forgotten when I came back, and then I used the pass-through door to lie down in my own bed. I swear, Carrie, I’m going to redo everything. I’ll get it back exactly the way it was.”
“Is anything missing?”
He grimaced. “I’ll figure it out. I promise. Linda’s going to kill me.”
“No, if she’s going to kill anyone, it will be me for stuffing you full of McDonald’s and then disappearing for three hours with my cell phone off.”
All Day and a Night: A Novel of Suspense (Ellie Hatcher) Page 19
