The Betrayal

by Terry Lynn Thomas

  “No,” Brian said immediately. “No, she wouldn’t. Don’t do that to yourself. The grief over losing Sandy is enough to bear, Mrs. Watson. Did Sandy have any other boyfriends who could have become jealous enough to kill her?”

  “No,” Celeste said. “Sandy dated some, nice boys her own age, but she had plans. She wanted to get an education and go to law school. She would have done it, too. Sandy was a determined child. Once she decided she was going to do something, there was no stopping her. Do you think Mrs. Sinclair killed my daughter, Mr. Vickery? The television reporters say there is a lot of evidence pointing to her guilt.”

  “No,” Brian said in an instant, surprised at his own conviction. “I’m sure she didn’t. She’s being framed.”

  “Don’t trust Richard Sinclair, Mr. Vickery. And be careful. He has power and influence and knows how to use it.”

  “I know. Thanks for the warning.”

  Celeste walked him to the front door.

  “You’ll find out who really killed my daughter?”

  “I will.” Although he knew from years on the police force that there were no guarantees in any investigation, he had every intention of finding out who killed Sandy Watson and Janelle Maycott.

  Chapter 17

  Monday, October 20

  Andrew’s fury at Richard had been continual and relentless, but Richard had somehow managed to stay out of his partner’s way over the weekend. Beth Musselwhite had sent her promised termination letter, along with a written guarantee that Andrew and Richard would be paid for outstanding services and would additionally receive their bonuses. Richard had gladly turned over the entire mess to Wendy. His plan was to work his cases until he handed them over, billing as many hours as possible. To this end, he was able to stay in his office behind his closed door with little disturbance.

  Richard had always been able to shut off the stress and tune out the noise around him when he was focused on work. Now was no exception. He had 500-plus pages of deposition testimony to read before a trial that was scheduled to start in ten days. The case would in all likelihood settle, but Richard always prepared, just in case.

  On this Monday morning, he had worked from eight o’clock straight through the lunch hour, doing his best to at least appear busy so Wendy and Andrew would leave him alone. Finally, after reading the same sentence five times, he pushed away from his desk and grabbed his jacket. He had just closed his office door when that cop – what was her name? Inspector Sharon Bailey – came into the foyer with her partner, a surly young girl who didn’t bother to hide her dislike for Richard. Richard plastered a smile on his face and went into the foyer to meet the two women.

  “What can I do for you today, ladies? I was just leaving.”

  “This won’t take long, Mr. Sinclair,” Inspector Bailey said. “We have a warrant to take a DNA swab.”

  The younger officer all but threw the warrant at Richard. He caught it as it fluttered to the ground and perused it quickly. “Very well. Let’s go in my office.”

  Inspector Bailey stood by while the younger officer took two swabs from Richard’s cheek. After she put the swabs in a plastic tube, both officers signed and dated the label, and the tube was tucked into an evidence bag, which was also signed by both officers before it was sealed.

  “Why do you need my DNA?” Richard asked.

  Inspector Bailey gave him a condescending smile. “Sorry. Can’t discuss the investigation. Thanks for your cooperation. We’ll be in touch.”

  And without further explanation, both women left.

  Their absence created a sort of vacuum, and Richard Sinclair was acutely aware that things were happening behind the scenes over which he had no control but which could ultimately affect him. He stepped out into the hallway to find Andrew standing outside his office.

  “What was that all about?”

  “I have no idea,” Richard said.

  “Where are you going?” Andrew called after him.

  “Out,” Richard said.

  Chapter 18

  Tuesday, October 21

  Olivia dreamt Denny had forbidden her to witness the birth of her beautiful baby. In her dream, Denny had chosen her mother-in-law, Linda, to be at her side during this momentous occasion, a decision that broke Olivia’s heart. As Denny’s contractions became stronger and closer together, Olivia witnessed Denny’s understanding about her husband and his family bloom. During one particularly intense moment, she reached out to Linda, grabbing her hand for support. But Linda pushed Denny away, her attention focused on the doctor, on the baby. Denny realized Linda had attended the birth for one reason: the baby.

  Helpless to do anything, Olivia watched as Denny gave birth, her heart filled with joy at the sounds of her crying granddaughter. Before Denny could hold her baby, Linda Grayson took the child away, despite Denny’s desperate pleas.

  Olivia sat up with a jolt, drenched in sweat, her duvet in a pile on the floor. The bedside clock said 3:00 a.m. Afraid she would have the nightmare again and unable to face it, Olivia got up and headed into the living room. The banker’s boxes – four from Brian and two more recently sent to Stephen Vine by Janelle Maycott’s mother – and the FedEx envelope of photographs that Brian had brought to her yesterday afternoon stood in the corner, ready for her. She grabbed a fresh legal pad and stack of Post-its and opened the first box. Brian Vickery’s files, folders with his neat handwriting, colored Post-it Notes, now faded with age, and the reams of reports and photographs and statements filled the boxes. Olivia was determined to study every single nugget of evidence.

  At first the work was mundane, the evidence tedious and uninformative. The first folder held statements taken from Janelle’s family and friends and told the story of a vivacious young woman, ambitious, intelligent, and more than a little free-spirited. By the time she finished reading, Olivia felt like she knew Janelle and was saddened by her untimely death. There was something about Janelle that got under the skin, and Olivia could understand why Brian couldn’t let the case go.

  She moved on to the next box to discover hundreds of photos, most of them pictures of the crime scene and surrounding area. There were shots of the interior and exterior of Janelle’s apartment, and extensive photos of every item reviewed during a search of the murder scene. Olivia scanned through pictures of doorknobs, spots of carpet, and other seemingly innocuous subjects.

  Nothing could have prepared her for the contents of the third box, which contained the crime scene photos and shots of the murder. “Oh, you poor girl,” Olivia said out loud as she studied the gruesome close-up of Janelle’s once beautiful face. In death, her tongue protruded, her eyes bulged, the rope around her neck lending a macabre sort of madness to the scene.

  There was no denying the similarity between Janelle’s photo and the photo Inspector Bailey had shown Olivia of Sandy Watson. Cold all of a sudden, Olivia jumped up from the couch, as if to distance herself from the lurid photos, and paced back and forth across her living room. Her heart broke for those poor young women, whose lives had been snatched away.

  She padded barefoot down the hall to her bedroom, where she put on a warm sweater and heavy socks. Catching sight of herself in the vanity mirror above her dresser, Olivia paused, surprised by what she saw. The past week had not been kind to her. Dark half-moons had bloomed under her eyes, giving her a haunted look. Her face, devoid of makeup, looked haggard and drawn, her eyes bloodshot and tired from the tears that she had shed in private. The gray roots gave her the look of a bedraggled old woman who had seen better days.

  Turning her attention back to the evidence boxes, she took out every single photo of Janelle Maycott’s dead body, along with all the photos of the crime scene in situ, and spread them out on the floor in a circle around her. Janelle Maycott had lived in a studio apartment, with a kitchenette and good-sized bathroom. An antique desk was tucked into the bay window, and although Janelle’s mattress was directly on the floor, the floral print duvet and overstuffed pillows made the aust
ere studio look inviting. Olivia judged Janelle Maycott to have been a woman of taste, either living on a student’s salary or living a minimalistic life by design.

  Once Olivia got over the initial horror of the murder, the crime scene photos were rather revealing. Whoever had killed Janelle had staged her body on the floor, folding her hands over her chest and resting them over her heart. Forcing herself to study the body, she noticed there was no evidence of a fight, no defensive marks – she had heard them called on crime shows – on Janelle’s hands and arms. She skimmed through the other photos of the exterior of Janelle’s apartment, but nothing caught her eye.

  Olivia wondered if Sandy’s hands had been folded over her chest. She had only seen a close-up of Sandy’s face, so she made a note to ask about that. Feeling as though she had seen the worst and was now prepared for anything else, she moved on to the police reports, pathology reports, and reports submitted by the medical experts.

  By 6:00 a.m., Olivia had gone through two boxes of Brian’s evidence. The work was tedious and time-consuming. She stood, taking a minute to stretch out the kinks in her neck and shoulders before she picked up the papers that were scattered around the living room floor and placed them back in their boxes. Had Richard and Janelle Maycott’s lives intersected? After law school Richard had worked for the San Francisco District Attorney’s office for three years, after which he had gone to work for a plaintiff’s law firm, which had closed its doors twenty-five years ago. When he won his first big jury verdict, his career took off, and he hadn’t looked back. Richard loved the limelight, loved being the center of attention.

  When Richard and Andrew had started Rincon Sinclair in 2000, Richard single-handedly managed to convince Countryside Insurance into giving their sizeable block of business to his firm. In addition to Richard’s public notoriety, he and Olivia had both been very active in fundraising for needy causes. Olivia took on the volunteer work in an effort to help those disenfranchised people who couldn’t help themselves. Richard supported her for the publicity. Could Janelle have worked a fundraiser that Olivia hosted?

  She took another box, this one from Alana Maycott, and dumped a box of photos on the floor, careful not to damage any of them. Unlike Brian’s meticulous files, Janelle’s mother had stuffed these belongings into the box in a hurry. The end result was chaos. There were hundreds of photos of Janelle Maycott. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Olivia went through the photos one by one. Images of Janelle as a child, always smiling, always surrounded by friends, spoke of her easygoing manner.

  Janelle Maycott grew into a beautiful young woman, with intelligent eyes and a kind smile. As the years went by, Janelle became more conservative. The print blouses and garish makeup she wore in high school and college were replaced by button-up blouses and the more tailored clothes required for internships and the reality of the adult world. One batch of pictures caught Olivia’s attention. It was taken in front of City Hall and depicted Janelle and a young man. The young man, although handsome, looked uncomfortable in a suit and tie, while Janelle looked like she was ready to take on the world, not knowing that in a few short months someone would snuff out her life.

  She continued to go through the photos, almost by rote now, sure that nothing in them would help her. The photo montage of Janelle Maycott was a stark reminder of a young life ended too soon. She was near the bottom of the pile when one photo caught her attention. She recognized the location. The picture was taken at a Hope for Children fundraiser that Olivia had chaired. She’d been unable to attend because Denny had become sick with the mumps. Although Richard had volunteered to stay home and care for Denny – one of the few times Olivia could remember him making such a sacrifice – Denny had begged Olivia to stay home with her. Olivia had capitulated to her daughter’s wishes, sending Richard to the fundraiser to represent both of them.

  The picture she held depicted Richard and Andrew, both dressed in tuxes, standing outside the venue for the event. Two women stood between them. Andrew’s second wife, Glynnis, hung on to Andrew’s arm, a moment of happiness in a marriage that would end in disaster. Janelle Maycott stood next to Glynnis, looking beautiful and glamorous in a full-length dress that accentuated her lithe young body. Richard had his arm draped around Janelle’s bare shoulders, while Janelle gazed up at him adoringly.

  They were lovers.

  Olivia knew it like she knew the earth revolved around the sun. She felt the cold trickle of sweat between her shoulder blades.

  When the hand that held the damning photo started to shake, Olivia tossed the photo on the floor as though it were on fire. She had found the evidence that linked Janelle Maycott with Sandy Watson. That link was Richard.

  Glancing at the clock, she saw it was 7:45. Ignoring social convention, she dialed Brian Vickery’s number. “I’m sorry to bother you so early, but I’ve found a picture of Janelle Maycott with Richard.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right with you. Give me fifteen minutes.” He hung up before Olivia had a chance to respond. Flying from all the coffee she’d consumed, Olivia paced the house, not quite sure what to do with herself. Even though she hadn’t much experience in criminal defense, she knew the picture wasn’t enough to exonerate her, but it was a cog in the investigative machine that Stephen and Brian were co-piloting. She would have to let go and trust that they would use this photo to her advantage. When Brian’s car pulled up, Olivia hurried to the front door to let him in.

  “There aren’t too many photographers left,” Brian said, casting a glance at the gaggle of journos still camped across the street from Olivia’s house. “Hopefully something more sensational will catch their attention soon, and they’ll leave you in peace.”

  “I find I’m growing used to them,” Olivia said. As they moved into the kitchen, she couldn’t help but notice that just being in Brian’s presence calmed her. There was something quiet and solid about him that was so different from Richard, who always needed things moving around him. Brian Vickery was the kind of man who would sit still and enjoy the peace. Handing him the picture, Olivia waited while he studied it.

  Brian studied the photo for a good minute. “I’ll take this to Stephen on my way to Napa, if that’s okay.”

  “Napa?”

  “I’ve tracked down Madison Pritchard. She’s at their house in Napa. I’m going to double-check Richard’s alibi.” Brian tucked the picture into his pocket. “You know, this picture implicates Andrew Rincon, too.”

  “He’s got a temper,” Olivia said. “But that doesn’t really fit with Sandy’s murder – or Janelle’s murder – does it? The crime was so calculated. Whoever killed those girls planned it. I could see Andrew getting angry and striking a fatal blow, but this crime was planned, the rope a prop in some macabre mise-en-scène. And if I’m going to be truthful, I don’t see Richard committing this crime either. I know this sounds strange, but he’s too arrogant to kill someone. And at the risk of sounding like a bitter, jilted wife, I see Richard for what he truly is: an egocentric narcissist. This crime just doesn’t seem like something he would do.”

  “That’s insightful,” Brian said. “But there could be things that we haven’t yet discovered. Like motive. What if Sandy Watson discovered something at Rincon Sinclair and threatened to go to the authorities? And what if what she found was enough to get her murdered?”

  “But that doesn’t explain Janelle Maycott,” Olivia said.

  “I know.”

  “Can I make you some breakfast?”

  Brian’s eyes softened with a hint of sadness.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No. Reminded me of my wife.”

  “I was just about to make some eggs and wouldn’t mind the company.”

  Soon she and Brian were seated with plates full of eggs, toast, butter, coffee for Brian and chamomile tea for Olivia. The grief Brian carried made him vulnerable in Olivia’s eyes, and this softness made Olivia trust him. As they ate, she surprised herself by confiding in him about her run-in
with David. She told Brian why she hired a private investigator to get evidence of David’s infidelity, and David’s threat to tell Denny that her mother had meddled so inappropriately.

  “Now I need to tell my daughter what’s happening with the case and how her father is implicated. I don’t want her to read it in the newspapers. If I call her, David will tell her what I did. If Denny finds out what I’ve done, she’ll never speak to me again.”

  Brian listened to Olivia’s tale of woe without comment or judgment, his eyes full of kindness.

  “What do you think? I know you don’t have kids, but if you were in my position, what would you do?”

  He got up from the table, took their plates to the sink, and took his time rinsing them. “I’d stand by my position if I were you. Call your daughter. Tell her what’s happening with your family. She has a right to know.”

  “And what do I do when David tells her what I’ve done? He’ll take my daughter away from me.”

  “You make it sound like Denny doesn’t have any say in the matter,” Brian said. “The truth, especially when it relates to character, has a way of wriggling to the surface. Denny will come around. Maybe not according to your timing, but she will. And all you can do is be here for her. When you talk to her, tell her that. Tell her you hired someone to investigate her husband, that you did it out of love. Tell her you will always be here for her. I don’t need to tell you to own your truth. You already know that.” He took his car keys out of his pocket. “I’m off. I’ll report to you and Stephen this afternoon, okay?”

  “Thanks, Brian,” Olivia said.

  After he left, Olivia punched Denny’s number into her cell phone twice, but found she didn’t have the courage to put the call through. She spent the rest of the morning cooking to distract herself. She got out her stockpot and made a huge pot of vegetable soup, not caring whether she would get to eat it. What she didn’t freeze, she would give away, maybe to the journalists and photographers across the street. Would they accept food from a woman accused of murder?