Mary always found it sad to hear a victim’s loved one refer to him in the present tense. Letting go was a lengthy process, and various bits and pieces lingered. It had taken her years to get over her father’s death. If she hadn’t quit her job to track down his killer, she would still be grieving. “Did Stan have any enemies?”
“God, no,” Belinda said. “Everyone loved him.”
“He told you he was going to New York on business. Did he go to New York often?”
“At least once a month. When the kids were little, we used to go as a family.” She had a faraway look in her eyes. “I love New York in the fall. We went to Broadway shows, shopped, took buggy rides through Central Park.”
Mary had to keep her on track. She’d traveled too far to listen to her reminisce. “When you called the Park Lane Hotel, where Stan was supposed to be staying, are you certain you used the number listed on his itinerary? Could you have mislaid these documents and called the operator for the number, or maybe looked it up in the phone book?”
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Waverly said. “For one thing, I don’t even have a copy of the yellow pages. They take up too much space. We don’t call the operator because they rip you off. I think they charge almost two dollars now. Anyway, Stan and I use the Internet.”
“Perhaps that’s how you got the phone number, then.”
“My computer had a virus, so I turned it off until I could get someone over to look at it.” She adjusted her position in the chair. “I used the number my husband left for me. I’ve told the police this ten times. I was transferred to his room, but he wasn’t there. I left a message for him, and Stan called me back right away. He said he’d been in the shower when I called.”
“And what day was this?”
“The same day he left,” Belinda told her. “There’s an hour’s difference, so I think it was around nine at night in New York. Everything was fine. It was the next day that I couldn’t reach him, the day Craig fell off his skateboard and broke his arm. When he didn’t answer his cell or at the hotel, I checked his itinerary and saw that he had a meeting scheduled at World Manufacturing. I called the number listed and spoke to a woman. I don’t recall her name. She said the meeting had just begun, but she would ask Stan to call me as soon as it ended. Of course, you wouldn’t be here if he’d called.”
“Did the police check to see if this call went through?”
“They got someone’s cell phone, just like they did with the number listed for the hotel. It’s the most bizarre thing I’ve ever experienced. How could a number belong to a hotel one day, and the next day be someone’s cell phone?”
“And the same thing happened with World Manufacturing?”
“Exactly,” she said, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket and pushing a key. “Listen.”
A young voice began speaking: “This is Ashley. Leave a message, or I’ll never talk to you again.”
She tossed the phone to Mary. “Listen to it again. I’ve listened to it a hundred times. The girl’s mother called and told me to stop harassing her daughter.”
“How long had the girl had the number?”
“The police said the number was assigned to her a month before I called. It was the same thing with all the numbers on Stan’s itinerary. The police thought Stan just made up the numbers on the itinerary, thinking I wouldn’t know the difference.” Her face twisted with anguish. “I know my husband. Stan would never do something like that, especially to me.”
“Who do you think typed the itinerary?”
“I don’t know,” Belinda said, wrapping her arms around her chest. “Stan’s assistant didn’t type it, nor did anyone else at his office. I guess Stan could have typed it himself. If he did, he must have typed it on his laptop, because the police didn’t find anything in the computer here at the house.”
East excused himself and stepped outside for some air. Mary continued, “Whoever typed it may not have stored it on the hard drive.”
“I can’t imagine Stan typing anything. He charged by the hour, and trust me, his fees were exorbitant. I mean, you could hire three attorneys for what my husband charged.” Belinda stood up and walked over to one of the oil paintings. “All I’m trying to say is he placed a high value on his time. I guess I shouldn’t be talking about money right now. Most of the artwork is going to Sotheby’s next week to be auctioned off. I might be able to keep the house if I go back to work selling real estate. The kids are so young, though.”
Mary poured herself another glass of iced tea. Most of the ice cubes had melted, but she needed the caffeine. “Didn’t your husband have life insurance?”
“No,” she said, turning back around. “Stan didn’t believe in life insurance. There’s a considerable age difference, twenty years to be precise. His first wife took him to the cleaners. When we first got married, I think he was afraid if he insured himself for a large amount of money, I’d put a pillow over his head when he got old and sick.” She smiled. “We used to joke about it.”
Although the next question was cruel, Mary had no way to get around it. She also assumed the police had addressed the same issue. “Was your husband having an affair, Belinda?”
“Most certainly not,” she said, dropping back down in the chair. “Stan and I had a great marriage. Everything was perfect. He told me he loved me every day.” She linked eyes with Mary. “I know what you’re thinking, that most women would say the same thing under the circumstances. Stan was in love with me, Agent—”
“Please, call me Mary.”
Belinda became agitated. “Stan would have died for me, understand? Even actresses didn’t interest him.”
Mary heard a commotion, and a few minutes later a towheaded little boy burst into the room, running straight to his mother. Belinda pulled the three-year-old into her lap and kissed him on the cheek, then sat him back down on the floor. “Go in the other room with Lucy, baby. Mommy has company.” When the boy started to fret, she shouted for the housekeeper, and the woman rushed in and carried the child away.
Mary stood, deciding it was time to wind things up. “We’d like to have contact information for Stan’s closest friends and coworkers, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not at all,” she said. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll print out our address book for you. I already did this for the police, so you’ll see a star next to the people we saw on a regular basis.”
Mary walked into the foyer to stretch her legs. Something kept dogging her, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. Although she had an excellent memory, it was hard to juggle all the information she had amassed over the years. She saw a large framed picture of Belinda on the wall that she hadn’t noticed earlier. She wasn’t surprised when she read the plaque at the bottom: MISS AMERICA, 1990.
“That was a long time ago,” Belinda said when she returned, a weary look on her face. “Another lifetime, as they say.”
“You’re still beautiful.”
“Look,” she said, ignoring the detective’s comment, “finding the killer isn’t going to bring my husband back, but I don’t want someone else to suffer like this. Let me know if I can help in any way.”
“Hang in there,” Mary said, staring at her a few moments before she opened the door and left.
TWENTY
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29
VENTURA, CALIFORNIA
After her phone call to Shana concluded, Lily’s thoughts returned to Bryce. She’d stopped calling his cell phone because his voice mail was full. Even that was cause for concern. Every businessman checked his messages. Then she realized the world communicated by e-mail. She turned to her computer and typed Bryce a message, marking it urgent and requesting notification when the message was read. There wasn’t much else she could do now but wait. The hotel in Charleston told her Bryce had checked in, but he had not returned her call. After she talked to Kidwell, she’d call his office and see if anyone there had heard from him. If she didn’t count the day he had left, Stan had bee
n out of touch with her for less than twenty-four hours. It was too early to begin checking the hospitals.
“Send Kidwell in, Jeannie,” she said over the intercom.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come straight from court,” the young prosecutor told her. “There was a problem with the Douglas shooting. What’s on your mind?”
“Sit,” Lily said, leaning back in her chair. “Have you talked to the pediatrician who delivered the Stucky boy?”
“No, it didn’t seem relevant.”
“I disagree,” she said, a crisp tone to her voice. “You subpoenaed his school records, didn’t you?”
“We’ve already established that Brian’s teacher, Mrs. Gonzales, didn’t make any notations in his file about his weakness and confusion. All we have is her testimony.” Kidwell looked frustrated, as if he thought she was unhappy with the way he was trying the case. “Where are we going with this, Judge Forrester?”
“Do you have all of Brian’s school records, specifically those from kindergarten and the first grade?”
“I’m not sure if they go that far back,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “They transferred the boy to public school from a private school in the first grade. He didn’t seem to have a problem until later, so I didn’t request those records. He wasn’t diagnosed with ADD until the third grade. That’s when the doctor started him on Ritalin.”
“How did he perform then?”
“Poorly,” Kidwell said. “The school wanted to put him in special ed classes. They agreed not to if the parents got him professional treatment.”
Lily sat forward in her seat. “Your motive is weak, Counselor. Elizabeth Stucky’s parents are wealthy, influential people. She didn’t need her son’s life insurance money.”
Kidwell’s shoulders rolled forward. “I know,” he said. “We haven’t been able to come up with another motive. We just found out who Mrs. Stucky’s parents were last week. I guess they’re going to testify.”
“And what do you think they’re going to say?”
“That they would give Elizabeth money if she needed it, which might not be true. We’re working around the clock to dig up something on her. You know, drugs, gambling, anything that could have caused her parents to cut her off financially. As of today, we’ve come up empty-handed. Other than being a clotheshorse, she’s squeaky clean. The same goes for the husband.”
Lily asked, “Did the father need money? Could he have embezzled money from his work? He’s an accountant, so that gives him access.”
“He has a huge pension, as well as a significant stock portfolio. Their house and cars are paid for, so Ronald’s salary more than covers their expenses. These people are impenetrable, Judge Forrester. I don’t want to lose this case. They killed this kid, and I’m having nightmares that they’re going to get away with it. If you have any ideas to keep that from happening, I’m more than willing to listen.”
Lily looked at her watch, realizing she would have to forgo lunch. “Okay,” she said. “There may be a possibility that Brian Stucky was retarded. I doubt if he was brain-injured, but it bears checking out. He could have been oxygen-deprived at birth. Having a retarded child would have been an embarrassment to Elizabeth Stucky. Are you following me?”
“Yes, go on.”
“Her husband is already an embarrassment.”
“Jesus, you’re right.” The prosecutor became animated, scooting to the edge of his seat. “I’ve seen the way Elizabeth looks at him. Every time he opens his mouth, she looks like she wants to strangle him. I thought it was a ploy. You know, he did it and she despises him, but she can’t force herself to tell anyone the truth because she still loves him.”
“I’m only sharing my take on this as a former prosecutor,” Lily said. “I could easily be wrong, understand?”
Things seemed to be taking shape in Kidwell’s mind. “Rich girl falls in love and marries a run-of-the-mill guy. As she gets older, she realizes he doesn’t fit in, and that her socialite friends look down on her for marrying below her status. Her friends are married now and have kids. When they get together, they brag about their children’s accomplishments. Elizabeth can’t bring herself to admit she has a defective child, so she tells her friends and family Brian has a mild case of ADD, which is common enough that some of her friends’ kids may have the same thing. As Brian’s schoolwork gets harder, she gives him higher doses of Ritalin until the poor kid completely freaks out. Then, when he still can’t perform in school, she gets a psychiatrist to give him more medicine. This only compounds the problem, so Elizabeth gets fed up and decides to get rid of him. If he dies, people will feel sorry for her, and she’ll get the attention she craves.” He looked up at Lily. “Are we on the same page here?”
“Precisely, Counselor.”
“This is great,” he said, standing. “We’ll get right on it. I can’t thank you enough, Judge Forrester. We might win this case after all.” He headed toward the door, his head down in thought. “Oh,” he said, turning around. “It may take some time to track down the pediatrician and get our hands on the other school records. I also want to interview Elizabeth’s friends again to see if one of them has a kid with ADD. If we can’t get this together in time, will you grant us a continuance?”
The Burkell case was pending trial. Lily also had a 245 on the docket, an assault with a deadly weapon. The DA’s office was thinking of pleading it out, but if the defense rejected their offer, the case could go to trial. Then if Stucky ran over, she would be backlogged. “I suggest you and your coworkers work as fast as you can, Counselor. My calendar is stacked.”
Kidwell wasn’t happy, but he knew this wasn’t the time to argue. She had just handed him his case.
Lily placed her hands on the desk, a stern expression on her face. “This conversation never took place. Are we clear?”
“Perfectly,” he said, disappearing through the doorway.
Anne awoke starving and furious. It was almost midnight and the next plane out of Las Vegas didn’t leave until six in the morning. “Damn, fuck, shit,” she said, pitching around inside the car. With her right leg, she gave Bryce a vicious kick.
Something wet was on her chin. Looking into the vanity mirror, she realized it was drool. How could she have been so negligent? She never slept during the day. Part of the problem was the dark parking structure, and the fact that she had forgotten to take her diet pills. She cranked the ignition and roared off, the smell of burning rubber drifting in through the open window.
As she drove, she kept her eyes peeled for cops. The police were everywhere. A cop car was parked in front of the Shop-Quick Mart. A few blocks down, she saw another police car turning down a side street. “You’re an idiot,” she said, pounding the steering wheel. “You’re fucked, literally, royally fucked.”
The police were tailing her, waiting to see what she would do next. Pulling to the curb, she got out and checked her front tire. It looked fine, the same as all the others. Either the cop had been trying to hit on her, or he was working with the FBI. How had they tracked her from the stupid tape?
Getting back in the car, Anne eased the Escalade into traffic. She’d spent months creating the tape and making certain the FBI’s forensic lab wouldn’t be able to extract even a microbe of identifying evidence. The challenge was what made it worth doing. There was no DNA: no skin, no hairs, no eyelashes, and no saliva. Every time she’d touched the tape, she had worn gloves and stuffed her hair inside a plastic cap. She’d even bought a white lab coat and paper booties. How could the FBI possibly know who she was? Even she didn’t know who she was.
She was alive when she should be dead.
Anne’s entire life came down to that. All of the doctors had been shocked she’d survived, even labeling her the miracle girl. Some miracle, she thought. They should have peeled her off that fence and buried her, even if there was a spark of life still left inside her. No one recovered from such a horrific experience, let alone the awful years that followed.
Two worthless excuses for human beings had procreated, spawning a child born to suffer. A mistake that couldn’t be corrected, her life should have ended that night on the interstate. To psychologically recover would minimize the extreme cruelty her father had inflicted. In her mind, the crimes she had committed stood as testament to that cruelty.
When Anne saw parents yank their children’s arm in a public place or slap them, she could imagine the abuse they must inflict in private. If she went up to those parents and told them they were creating a monster, they would curse at her and drag the poor kid away. People didn’t just wake one morning and stop beating their children. This was the real world. Shit like that didn’t happen.
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