Vortex

by Catherine Coulter

  “Bottom line, I can’t let her get away with murdering three people, five counting the ex-husbands. I know who she is, Sherlock, what she is, and that’s a psychopath, a stone-cold killer.”

  Kelly signaled, steered the Fiat around an eighteen-wheeler, earning a honk from the driver and a thumbs-up.

  Sherlock thought about this. “Angela Storin owned a Walther PPK, had a license?”

  “Correct. She claims the Walther was stolen two weeks before the murders. She called the local cops to report it. She claims she’d only shot it once, that her second husband gave it to her, registered it, showed her how to use it, but she says she hates guns, never used it. She also claims she put it in a cardboard box in her garage, simply forgot about it.” Kelly turned on her blinker and took the Brickson exit. “Brickson is one of Manhattan’s bedroom communities, mostly middle-class, a mixed community, but the doctor’s neighborhood, in the north end, is the primo spot to live.”

  A few blocks off the highway, Kelly turned right onto Hickory Street. The lots grew larger, as did the houses. Most were older, established, their yards filled with trees hunkered down in the frigid winter wind.

  The Madison house was at least a hundred years old, with a deep wraparound porch. It sat in the middle of a heavily forested lot, looked for all the world like a precious old queen from a bygone era. The closest neighbors were a hundred feet away through swells of maple and oak trees, a good cover for someone not wanting to be seen. It was obvious no one had been taking care of the yard. Potted hanging plants were dead, the grass overgrown.

  Sherlock wanted to be alone in the house so Kelly handed her the keys and stayed in the car, heater on high, working on her tablet. Even bundled up to her eyebrows, Sherlock was shivering as she removed the yellow crime scene tape and stepped into the empty house. She stood silent a moment in the bare oak entry hall. There was a faint smell of chemicals from the CSI team.

  She imagined the house had been welcoming when it was filled with life and light and central heating, but now it felt abandoned, as if even the spirits had moved on. It was all shadows and emptiness and stale air. And very cold.

  15

  Sherlock

  Sherlock left the lights off as she walked through the downstairs—a living room, dining room, family room added on in the back of the house, and Dr. Madison’s study, all dignified burgundy leather with an art deco vibe. She saw labeled and numbered bloody shoe prints, black now, smeared into one another, as if the supposed robbers were confused about where to go, or wanted to seem so. She backtracked along the bloody prints to the kitchen where three people had died. Unlike the rest of the house, the kitchen was newly remodeled, starkly modern. She’d seen photos of Mrs. Madison, both alive and dead. She’d been a comfortably plump older woman, rolling out dough for an apple pie at the counter, maybe hoping the crust would turn out flaky enough, when she turned at a sound, a voice perhaps, and Storin shot her in the face. Or had she? Had they argued before Storin shot her? Erased her face, erased her?

  Sherlock saw Mrs. Madison had hit the counter as she fell, and the flour spewed upward. She bounced back and crashed to the ocher tiles, on her back, her face covered with bloody flour. She looked down to see gobs of flour still mixed with dried blood on the tiles where the wife had lain. A bowl of rotten apple slices still stood on the counter next to the blood-spattered pie dough. It looked obscene.

  The frigid air still carried the taint of copper from all the blood, not surprising given the murders had happened only four weeks before, but the chemical smell that overlay it was heavier. How long would it take for those smells to sink into the walls and the floor, into the very bones of the house? Who would ever want to live here again? But of course, the horrific crime would either fade away or gain more gruesome proportions in the years to come.

  Sherlock looked down at the chalk outlines of the three bodies, Mrs. Madison on her back, arms flung away from the body, Dr. Madison’s and Mr. La Shea’s bodies twisted because they’d hit either the center island or the stove when they’d fallen, both on their sides.

  All that was left of three human beings were their white chalk outlines and the bloody flour. There wasn’t much near the two men. Sherlock knew Mrs. Madison was murdered before Dr. Madison had come home. Had Storin known Mrs. Madison was alone in the house?

  Sherlock backed up and stood quietly in the doorway studying the kitchen. Who was first to die of the men and why? Happenstance? A picture of what had happened didn’t come together for her. She knew only that the conclusion reached by the ME and the Brickson detectives and Kelly didn’t work for her. She walked out of the kitchen, then walked back in, looked with fresh eyes, and she noticed a kitchen chair was pulled away from the small kitchen nook table, its three brothers still tucked in. All right, the chair could have been moved by the crime scene techs, but she knew they wouldn’t do that, no reason to. She then started to see it, nearly clear in her mind. Storin had turned the chair to face the body of Mrs. Madison, and the kitchen doorway, to wait for Dr. Madison to come in. Of course she’d planned all along to kill him as well.

  Sherlock smiled as the pieces began to slot themselves together. Yes, Storin pulled out the chair after she killed Mrs. Madison, sat down, and waited. How long had she sat near where Mrs. Madison’s body lay on its back, face destroyed, blood all around her head? Kelly had described Storin as emotionless, a psychopath, and that’s what she’d have to be. She’d accepted Dr. Madison wasn’t coming back to her and it enraged her, sent her over the edge, set her to planning the murder of both him and his wife. Otherwise why wait for him in the kitchen with his dead wife? To make a point. She wondered again if the two women had spoken before Storin shot her. Had Mrs. Madison told her he’d confessed the affair to her and sworn he’d never go back to Storin? When Storin had faced her, had Mrs. Madison insulted her, called her a slut? Is that when Storin shot her? Did Storin even feel a moment of regret? No, Sherlock didn’t think so. If anything, Storin had felt justified and excited for the betraying bastard to come home. Soon he would learn what she was made of, that no one screwed around with her, just as those other two bastards had learned their lessons. What were you feeling when you sat there, Angela? Excited when you heard Dr. Madison call out to his wife because you were about to kill another man who’d left you, betrayed you? Were you eager to see his shock when he saw his dead cow of a wife? Did you preen, laugh, imagine that when he saw her and then saw you he would know he was a dead man? Did he yell at you? Plead for his life, swear he hadn’t meant to break it off with you? He loved you and no one else?

  If he’d said anything, it hadn’t been enough. She’d killed him and his unfortunate neighbor. And she’d thought sorry, no apple pie for anyone.

  Sherlock walked carefully around the chalk outlines and sat down in the chair where Storin had waited. Did she know exactly when Dr. Madison was coming home? It turned out not to be long. The ME had said the killings were no longer than thirty minutes apart.

  Thirty minutes sitting in that chair. After she shot Dr. Madison in his forehead, did Mr. La Shea hear the shot, come running in? Or had he been standing with Dr. Madison? And she’d shot Madison, then him. No, that didn’t feel right. She didn’t think La Shea was in the kitchen when Storin shot Dr. Madison.

  Odd how Storin shot Mrs. Madison in the face rather than the forehead. Why? Because she was pissed off to lose? So many questions that would never be answered.

  Sherlock knew the ballistics showed Storin had to have been standing when she shot the men, so Sherlock stood up. The investigating team believed Storin had approached Madison with her gun, the supposedly stolen Walther PPK, held in front of her, tracking through Mrs. Madison’s blood, and shot him up close. And when La Shea had run in, she fired again, both men shot in the center of the forehead. Steady, steady hand. The team thought she’d already taken Mrs. Madison’s jewelry, including her wedding ring, and emptied her jewelry case upstairs, and then she took the men’s wallets and their watches
to make it all look like a robbery. Then she ran from the kitchen out through the side door, mixing up the bloody footprints, took off her shoes, and left the house. The side door, the team believed, because Storin wouldn’t take the chance of going through the front door and being seen. She’d dumped her shoes, her clothes, in case there was blood splatter, and of course the Walther.

  The ME determined she’d shot the two men from no more than four or five feet away, any closer and there’d have been gunpowder residue. But that wasn’t right. Sherlock looked back at the chair. It stood at least twelve feet from the chalk outlines showing where the men’s bodies had fallen. Sherlock sat again in the chair, willed the scene to come clear. Storin heard Madison, and she stood up. But she hadn’t moved toward Madison. The jumble of bloody footprints came later.

  You stood up and shot them, Angela, which means you’re a very fine shot. Twelve feet away and you shot both men in the forehead. With a handgun. You’re beyond good, you’re excellent.

  Sherlock dialed Kelly. “You told me Storin denied she’d shot the Walther, right?”

  “Only one time, she said. She claimed she barely knew how it worked, said she only noticed it was gone when she went looking for some papers in her garage safe. Why?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute,” and Sherlock hung up. She stood, looked down again at the chair. I’ll bet you like to shoot, it gives you a rush. I’m an excellent shot but I doubt I could have made two such perfect kill shots from twelve feet away, all hopped up on adrenaline and rage like you were.

  Sherlock walked out of the house, locked the front door, reattached the crime scene tape, and walked quickly back to Kelly’s Fiat. She got in and quickly closed the door. Thankfully, the heater was going full blast. She said, “Verify for me, Kelly. How far away from the victims did the ME say the kill shots were fired?”

  “Mrs. Madison, really close. The two men maybe four to five feet.”

  Sherlock said, “Kelly, Storin pulled out a chair from the kitchen nook table after she shot Mrs. Madison and she sat there, waited for Dr. Madison to come home. When he and Mr. La Shea came into the kitchen, she simply stood up and shot them both. She shot them from twelve feet away, I counted it off.”

  Kelly stared at her. “The chair—no one noticed. Twelve feet? Are you sure?”

  “It’s what makes the most sense to me. Twelve feet. Everyone assumed that with such perfect kill shots, she had to be close, within five feet, but she wasn’t. Kelly, could you fire two fast rounds into two foreheads from twelve feet?”

  Kelly said slowly, “Maybe, but I’m really good. If I was hyped up, in a real firefight, with people juking around, it’d be iffy.”

  “It means she’s a shooter, maybe even competed. Shooting is something she does often, so she needs a gun range to practice. I can’t imagine she’d pick one that far away from Brickson. Let’s find it.”

  Kelly threw herself at Sherlock, hugged her tight. “Would you marry me?”

  “What about Cal and Dillon?”

  “I’m sure we can find them other duties at which they’ll excel.”

  16

  Mia

  New York City

  Tuesday afternoon

  Mia stepped out of the Guardian Building into a splattering cold rain that could freeze your bones and couldn’t believe it when a taxi actually pulled over. She stepped quickly into amazing warmth. The driver addressed her in pure Brooklyn. “I hope you’re going more than two blocks, lady.”

  “I am indeed,” Mia said and settled herself. “Eighty West Forty-Ninth, at Sixth Avenue.”

  He fed the taxi into the sluggish traffic, looked in the rearview. “I’ve taken three or four people there in the last couple of days—it’s that guy Harrington’s campaign headquarters, right?”

  She’d lucked out. A native New Yorker, a nearly extinct breed in New York City. His driver’s ID said he was Vincent Toledo. He looked to be in his midfifties with sharp dark eyes and ears sticking straight out from a nearly bald head. He had a flattened nose, probably broken more than once. “Yes, that’s right. And what do you think of Harrington? Will you vote for him for mayor?”

  He gave her another look in the rearview. “Nah, fellow’s just a calf, can’t know his butt from his elbow, too young to know any of the players who make this town run right. I know he’s swimming in dough, his mama and daddy bankrolling him. No, give me Paulie O’Connor, he’s my guy, Brooklyn born and raised, our borough president since the Bloomberg days. He knows all the players, all the right people, he knows how to get things done. Remember the garbage strike last month? He put a word in the mayor’s ear and got that shut down like that.” And Vincent snapped his fingers. “Paulie knows whose palm to grease, knows whose back to scratch. I’ll tell you, the mayor knows what he’s got in Paulie, listens to him all the time. But, if not Paulie, then maybe they should change the law; it’d be okay if the mayor stayed in.”

  “Unfortunately, the mayor is termed out. No changing that law.”

  “I know, I know, but I can wish, can’t I? Bums me out. But Harrington? No way. With him, we’d have garbage up to our armpits.”

  Pure gold. Mia opened her tablet as fast as she could and kept him talking. By the time the taxi pulled to a stop at the curb in front of Harrington’s campaign headquarters, it had stopped raining. Mia gave him a big tip. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Toledo. Thanks for your opinions. I’ll be sure to include them in the article I’m writing.”

  “You might win a fancy award if you do. Nobody could disagree with me, unless they’re idiots.”

  She stood a moment, staring after his cab, barely moving in the heavy traffic. She wondered if Harrington knew Paulie O’Connor. She looked up at the Walcott Building, five years old, all steel and glass. Even in the dull winter light, the acres of glass sparkled. Did his family own the building? She wouldn’t be surprised. She glanced down at her watch. Five minutes until her scheduled interview with Harrington.

  Mia took the escalator to the second floor and stepped into a long open room that would soon be Harrington’s official campaign headquarters. It was filled with people on a mission, some carrying chairs, printers, boxes of supplies, setting up workstations. Mia barely missed running into a plump older woman carrying an armful of large cardboard posters with Harrington’s handsome face, his mouth beaming out a smile, a pithy quote underneath, on their way to being plastered throughout the city. The woman only nodded and sailed by her. She spotted Cory Hughes, Harrington’s campaign manager, looking as dapper and smooth as he had last night, only today he was in his shirtsleeves, eyeing his watch. She knew he’d been around the political block many times, for both parties, a politico to his heels. Milo had told her Hughes didn’t believe much in political philosophies, what he loved was the game and winning the game. His last success was running Governor Siever’s campaign. Milo thought Alex Harrington had a good chance of winning with Cory driving the bus.

  Hughes spotted her, jogged over, a big smile on his face. “Good morning, Mia, good to see you again. You’re right on time, but then you always are, I’m told. Alex is up to his eyeballs today with interviews but I know he particularly wanted to meet with you.”

  A line she’d expected, but that was okay, it was one of the rules of the game—make the candidate seem as busy and important as the president but with just enough time for one special journalist.

  She gave him a grin and followed him past cheek-to-jowl desks, tangles of electrical cords, computer monitors, and signs everywhere, propped against the desks, against every wall. Many of the volunteers, most under twenty-five, had their cells pressed against their ears or were stuffing envelopes, making huge stacks of them. She could easily tell the volunteers from the paid staff because only the volunteers bothered watching her, wondering who she was and if she was important. The old hands who drew a check recognized her as a reporter and didn’t pay her any attention. She saw Miles Lombardy, Harrington’s senior staffer she’d met at the fundraiser last night,
leaning over someone at a desk, speaking quietly. He looked up, gave her a small wave, but didn’t come over.

  Cory Hughes ushered her into a glass-walled office to see Alex Harrington sitting behind a banged-up rented desk, with several rented chairs as derelict as the desk in front of it. Obviously a man of the people. He’d taken off his Armani jacket and rolled up his sleeves, the poster boy for the busy candidate hard at work. He ended his cell phone call when he saw her and rose.

  He gave her a big smile. “Thanks, Cory, for bringing Mia back.” When Hughes had removed himself, closing the door behind him, the noise level fell magically to a low distinct rumble. He said, “Thank you for coming. Cory has assured me he trusts you to be unbiased. As I told you last night, I’ve been impressed with your blog Voices in the Middle. I think you’ll find echoes of some of your thoughts in my own campaign, and in my agenda for the city. It’s very brave of you, isn’t it, given the current no-holds-barred political climate? Too many of us have reduced politics to defending our own tribe, our own turf, rather than nurturing what unites us, and working to make the city a better place to live. Bloodying each other isn’t going to get us there.”

  Harrington had quoted practically verbatim from her blog, which meant he’d done his homework before she’d arrived. He was being smart, careful, stacking the deck in his favor as best he could. Mia nodded, smiled at him as he came around his desk, pulled out a chair for her. She stepped forward and shook his outstretched hand, a strong hand, with a firm grip. Had he practiced it? She looked down and froze, her breath caught in her throat. On his left wrist was a thick silver link bracelet. Automatically, she looked at his left earlobe. Of course there was no sign of a tear. Stop it—don’t be an idiot, lots of men wear bracelets like that, they’re popular, manly. Get a fricking grip.