Looking at the photos the way they were presented made her think of the proofs professional studios gave you, and she realized it had been over a year since Shana’s last portrait. She would have to have one done in another month or so. She glanced through the glass and saw her daughter at Margie’s desk, intently staring at each face. The process was a catharsis for Shana in many ways, and Lily was glad John had called the police and reported the crime. Considering the way things were shaping up, and with the simple fact that she had done what she had done and there was no going back, Lily thought that someday she might be able to detach herself from that terrible morning in Oxnard.
If Bobby Hernandez had murdered the prostitute to keep her from testifying against him, merely fulfilling that first mission that Lily had suspected all along—to kill her—then he might have followed the same pattern with her and her daughter. Perhaps God had intervened and it was His hand that had guided her, His voice she’d heard in her mind and not the ghost of her dead father. Recalling the religious fervor of her early childhood, she vowed to take Shana to the Catholic church one Sunday.
Deep in thought, she jumped when the door to the small office opened and Margie appeared with Shana. The detective was holding something in her hands, and took a seat next to Lily. Shana was ashen and wide-eyed, her hands by her sides, an excited expression on her face. Margie opened her mouth to speak, but Shana blurted out, “I found him. I know it’s him. I’m certain. Show her.” She reached over and pushed Margie’s shoulder. “Show her. She’ll know it’s him, too.”
Lily felt perspiration oozing from every pore in her body, and knew she would be drenched in seconds. Waiting for the heavy pressure in her chest signaling a heart attack, she felt blood rush from her face.
Margie saw her distress. “My God, you look ill,” she said, turning to Shana with a degree of urgency. “Go and get your mother some cold water from the water fountain—right at the back of the room you were in. And bring some paper towels from the bathroom and soak them in water. Hurry, now.” Shana ran from the room.
“Should I call an ambulance?” she asked Lily, seeing the moisture darkening the pale green blouse she was wearing, watching as beads of sweat dropped from her forehead, over her nose, and down her chin. “Are you having chest pains?”
Lily tried to monitor her breathing and calm herself. She felt as if there were a tight band around her chest and suddenly remembered the shingles. She was just having a panic attack, long overdue. Shana had seen a photo of someone who resembled Hernandez. She would realize it was the wrong man once she saw him in person in a lineup. “I’m okay. Just too much pressure, I guess. I also have a case of shingles.”
“I had those, too, one time,” Margie said sympathetically. “Boy, do they hurt. Nerves. That’s what they said caused it.”
Shana returned, her mouth tight with concern, carrying the wet towels and a cup of cold water. She handed them to her mother and stood back, watching as Lily wiped her face and the back of her neck and then left the soggy paper towels resting on her neck while she sipped the water. “I’m fine,” Lily said, reassuring Shana. “Might even be coming down with the flu or something.” She placed her hand on her forehead as if checking for a fever. “Just give me a minute and I’ll look at the photo.”
“Relax,” Margie said. “You can even go home and come back in the morning. One more day—”
“No,” Shana said, her voice louder than usual, insistent, “let her see it now. Then you can put him in jail.”
The detective turned and took Shana’s hand. “Just give your mom a minute, honey. This has been real hard on her, too. Even if your mom agrees that this man resembles the man who attacked you, we can’t just go out and arrest him. You’ll have to see him in a real lineup, and we’ll have to get an order from a judge to arrest him. That’s the way it works.”
Shana stared impatiently at Lily, impervious to whatever was wrong with her, wanting her to confirm her selection. Lily could see her chest rise and fall with every breath. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s see the photo.”
Asking Shana to return to the desk she had been at previously, the detective handed Lily a stack of pages with photos like the ones she had been looking at before they had entered.
“Go through each one slowly and don’t respond just because Shana told you she saw someone. I told her to remain outside earlier, but she followed me in here. If you do select someone, it should be based solely on your own judgment.” Seeing that Lily appeared in control, the detective said, “I’m going to step outside. Come out when you’re done.”
As she examined each photo, she was really looking, wanting to see the man Shana had seen, certain he resembled Hernandez but knowing half of Oxnard resembled Hernandez. She occasionally glanced out the window of the office, looking for Shana. Margie must have taken her to the vending machine for a soda or to the restroom. On about the twentieth page of photos, she saw him.
My God, a dead ringer, she thought, leaving no question as to why Shana had been so excited. Even if he was not the right man, simply seeing his face propelled her back to the fear and degradation of that night. Her pain for what her daughter had suffered was agonizing. The man had an almost identical shape to his face, his eyes, his mouth, his nose. Even the way his hair was cut was similar to Hernandez’s. He looked younger, however, and Lily knew he was not the rapist. He couldn’t be. The rapist was dead.
She took her time and studied his face closely. She recalled how photographs were sometimes miles apart from the actual person. They were one-dimensional, and this man, in profile, in body conformation, could look entirely different. Removing the paper towels from her neck, she felt the crisis had passed. Just go through the motions, she told herself, and even agree that he looks somewhat like the rapist, because if I don’t, it will upset Shana. So what if the guy had to be yanked in for a lineup? He’d done something at one time to place himself in this position. She certainly wasn’t going to worry about some unknown man with a criminal history. Once they saw him, the whole thing would be dropped. Lily would state he wasn’t the man and that would be the end of it.
She picked up the package of photos and calmly left the office. Margie and Shana were walking through the doors to the detective bureau, where six desks were lined up, three to a side. It was six-thirty and only one detective was still working, files open, phone to his ear, his feet on the desk. Shana held a Coke in her hand and appeared subdued but anxious. Lily had her finger on the page containing the photo of the man she was certain the girl had picked.
The three of them met in the center of the room. “I admit, I have one that’s real close, but I’m pretty sure it’s not the man,” Lily said without enthusiasm. Seeing the taut look of frustration in Shana’s eyes, she quickly added, “But it’s real close and worthy of additional investigation.”
Setting the photos down on Margie’s desk, she turned to the correct page and placed a finger on his face. “Number thirty-six is the one I picked.” Her look was questioning, but she didn’t have to wait long for a response.
“That’s him,” Shana said, turning to the detective. “Told you. That’s him. Number thirty-six.”
“Shana, I don’t feel as positive as you. I want you to know that from the start, and remember, I got a better look at him when he was leaving. You were terribly distraught.”
The visual image of him standing in the light from the bathroom appeared in Lily’s mind: the red sweatshirt, the profile. She even recalled the top of his head as he bent down to snap his pants. She glanced back down at the photo, but also noticed the other men on the page. Out of six, two were wearing a red T-shirt or sweatshirt. Red was a gang color. She knew that—every other Hispanic in Oxnard wore red and those silly baseball caps. She then started thumbing back through the pages and saw more red shirts. One man was wearing a gold chain with a crucifix. She turned the page and saw another man wearing a cross, only smaller. If she let her imagination go now, she might end up in a mental i
nstitution. The man she had shot was the man. It must end there and end now.
“Mom, you didn’t even have your glasses on that night, and you don’t have them on now,” Shana snapped. “He raped me, remember, and I can see perfectly.” She turned to Margie and said sarcastically, “She’s supposed to wear them when she drives, too, but she never does.”
“I only need them to read—just a little farsighted,” Lily informed the detective. “Anyway, arguing over it right now is counterproductive. Can you pull him in for a lineup?”
“I’ll get right on it and call you as soon as it can be arranged. You two go home, try to get some rest, and put this out of your mind.” As Shana walked past her mother, Margie gave Lily a look with those Liz Taylor eyes and shrugged her shoulders. “Life’s a bitch, isn’t it?”
“You got that right,” Lily replied, and started walking, trying to catch up with Shana.
By the time Lily made it out of the building, Shana was waiting by the passenger door of the Honda. As she started the car, Lily told her, “They’ll get the lineup together and we’ll take it from there, okay?”
The girl was staring straight ahead. They rode in silence for quite some time. “Why don’t you turn on the radio?” Lily suggested.
“He’s still out there. I know it now. I thought he’d run away. He didn’t. He’s still out there. You told me he would go far away and never come back so he wouldn’t be caught.”
Lily hesitated, torn now, not knowing exactly what to say and deciding she must call the psychologist and get Shana in to see her tomorrow. She felt that assuaging her rising fear was the right thing to do, even if she became angry. “I still believe he’s long gone, honey, and like I said back there, I don’t think it’s him. I can see things far away better than I can close up. That’s what farsightedness means. When he was close, it was very dark, but when he was leaving, he was farther away and in the light.” She reached for her hand, holding it tightly. “I don’t think the man you saw was him. He’s gone. You’re a smart girl. You know a lot of people look alike. Even you and I look alike, but of course I’m older. If we were the same age, people could mistake us even. See?”
Shana reached out and turned on the radio, tuning it to a rock station. She then yelled over the noise, “It was him, Mom. When you see him with your glasses on, then you’ll know.”
NINETEEN
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29
DALLAS, TEXAS
“This area is called Highland Park,” Agent East explained as they drove past manicured, wooded lots with picture-perfect homes on them. “The houses are older here and extremely pricey, primarily due to their close proximity to downtown. The crime rate is high for the same reason, but oddly, no one seems to care. See that little house over there? We’re talking two million, and the new owner would probably end up gutting it.”
“Brooks is an unusual name,” Mary said, flirting with him.
He laughed. “Not if you’re a baseball fan. I was named after Brooks Robinson. My dad thought if it was good enough for a Hall of Fame baseball player, it was good enough for me.”
“Wasn’t he from Baltimore?”
“He played for the Orioles. I grew up in Baltimore.”
“But you have a Texas accent?”
“We moved here when I was twelve.”
He turned into a long driveway. Mary’s eyes widened when they reached the sprawling red brick house. The lot had to be at least an acre, maybe more. “What kind of a price tag would you put on this house?”
“Four to five mil,” East told her, parking in front and getting out. He circled around and opened the car door for her.
Mary scooted across the seat so that her skirt hiked up a few inches, then flashed her shapely legs as she stepped out. By the time they went to dinner, she would own him.
She rang the doorbell, while East stood a few feet behind her. A uniformed maid answered, and Mary showed her ID.
“Mrs. Waverly is expecting you,” a pretty Hispanic woman said. “Follow me. Can I get you some iced tea?”
“That would be great,” East said, taking a seat on a floral print sofa.
Mary sat down on a matching chair adjacent to him, both of them checking out the room. The walls were covered with what looked like original oil paintings, and the furniture was opulent, almost gaudy. Several pieces, like an antique desk, were gilded in gold.
Belinda Waverly entered the room, stopping to shake hands with each of them, then dropping down in an overstuffed white chair. “Did Lucy get you something to drink?”
Just then, the housekeeper came in balancing a tray. On top was a pitcher of iced tea and three glasses. Mary couldn’t stop staring at Mrs. Waverly. She tried to pour a glass of tea without looking, and almost spilled it on the white Berber carpet. Beautiful was the only word Mary could think of to describe her. Although the word was used all too frequently, truly beautiful women were a rarity. And it was obvious that Mrs. Waverly’s beauty hadn’t been engineered by a plastic surgeon. Each section of her face complemented the other. Her hazel eyes were large and expressive, her nose gracefully slanted, her lips perfectly shaped. Void of makeup, her face had a natural, youthful appearance. Her brown hair possessed the kind of luster and body that you generally only see on young people, and her skin was radiant. A petite woman, she was wearing an aqua warm-up suit.
The couple were clearly wealthy, but the only thing about Belinda that struck Mary as materialistic was the enormous rock on her finger. All she could think of was why. If her husband had been murdered by their mysterious UNSUB, why would he even contemplate another woman? It seemed almost obscene. Variety, maybe, or the thrill of conquest. She was beginning to gain insight into the killer’s mind.
Some men were reptilian pricks.
Women were superior, Mary believed. They didn’t rape or molest children. They committed violent crimes on occasion, but with nowhere near the frequency of men. The majority of women were in prison because of drugs or alcohol. With practically every female offender, regardless of the crime, if you went back far enough, a rotten man would pop up. Besides, Mary thought, women gave birth. Without women, men would still be sitting around in caves playing with their dicks.
After she took a sip of her tea, Mary unpacked her laptop, placed it on the coffee table, and positioned the camera on Mrs. Waverly. “Do you mind if I record our discussion? It’s hard to remember everything, and I sometimes have trouble reading my own handwriting.”
“I guess it’s all right,” Mrs. Waverly said, tears pooling in her eyes. “You don’t think I killed Stan, I hope. Except for a few hours at the gym, I was here with the kids and Lucy the entire time. Well, I was for the time he was supposed to be gone. They haven’t told me yet when he actually died.”
Time of death wasn’t their most pressing problem, so Mary moved on. “We have no reason to believe you were involved in your husband’s death. I’m with the Investigative Support Unit based in Quantico, Virginia. Agent East is assigned to our Dallas Field Office. ISU assists other law enforcement agencies throughout the country.”
Mrs. Waverly reached for a stack of tissues she had stuffed inside the chair. “So you’re assisting the San Bernardino Police Department?”
She not only had beauty, Mary thought, she had a brain. “The main function of the ISU unit is criminal profiling.”
“Like in the movie Silence of the Lambs?”
Mary exchanged glances with Agent East. “More or less.”
“But that was about a serial killer,” she said, more tears gushing forth. “Good Lord, don’t tell me Stan was murdered by a serial killer.” She placed her head in her hands. “Christ, this has all been so horrible. When will it ever end?” She looked up and wiped her eyes with the tissue. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to get a call from the police telling you they found your husband’s body, but they don’t know where his head and hands went? To be honest, I don’t know how I can still cry. After a while, you get numb. You have to if you wa
nt to survive.”
Agent East spoke up, “I can imagine how terrible this has all been, Mrs. Waverly, but I’m sure you want to do everything in your power to bring this killer to justice.”
“Please, stop calling me Mrs. Waverly. My name is Belinda.” She tossed her hands in the air. “Go ahead, ask me anything you want.”
Mary started filming. “How long were you and your husband married?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Do you have children?”
“Three. Lindsey is nine, Craig eight, and Mike is three.”
“And Stan was an attorney, am I right?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Waverly said, letting out a long sigh. “He has clients all over the world, mostly international corporations. He specializes in mergers and acquisitions. Obviously, it’s very lucrative. It’s hard on the children, though. You know, the traveling. Last year, Stan decided he wanted to be a senator. We’re already planning his campaigning. . . .” She stopped and stared off into space.
The Cheater Page 21
