Betrayal

by ML Guida

  His voice was so cold that Heather went into defensive mode. “Rosemary would never hurt anyone, especially a seventy-five year old woman. You’re wrong. How can you say that?”

  “We have it all on surveillance tape. There’s no mistake, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

  Heather’s heart beat harder and harder. “Someone forced her.”

  He shook his head. “Forced? I don’t think so. She was stoned out of her mind.”

  Heather straightened her shoulders and met his judgmental gaze. “Rosemary has not done drugs for over a year.”

  “Not according to the tape. Either she was stoned, or possessed.”

  Heather wanted to shake him to get him to listen, but she kept her clenched fists to her side. “You don’t understand. Yesterday was her three hundred sixty-fifth day.”

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry. There’s no denying she committed the act. Only she and the Carmichael woman are on the tape. There’s no one else. I wish I could show you the tape, but it isn’t pretty.”

  “They had to scrape the woman’s body off the cement with a shovel,” Dunker said.

  Heather winced. “I...I...don’t believe it.”

  Hewitt frowned. “Officer Dunker.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Dunker said, but his dead tone was not convincing.

  Heather focused on Hewitt. He had a gentler, grandfather look, but he still thought Rosemary was a cold, psycho killer. “I know this is hard, but we need to have you identify your sister. We found her driver’s license, but we still need you to identify the body.”

  “Body? She’s not a fucking body.” Heather wiped her dripping nose. “She’s my sister.”

  “Here.” Hewitt handed her a white handkerchief.

  “Thank you.” Heather dabbed her eyes and blew her nose.

  “Please,” he said. “We need your help. If you can’t do this, is there someone else we can call?”

  All these years she had failed Rosemary like when her mother used to beat her sister at every turn. One time, Heather broke her mother’s favorite crystal vase, but Rosemary took the blame. Heather couldn’t look at her savior’s bruised face. She should have taken the beating, but she remained silent, too afraid to tell the truth.

  She’d defend her now. She sniffed and pushed her hair behind her ears. “No, I can do it.”

  “She’s over here.” He motioned her to follow.

  The same black Lincoln Continental and gas pump had splatters of blood down their sides. Red hand prints marred the shiny black door as if someone had tried to get inside, but failed. Her beating heart passed the speed limit, and blood roared between her ears. This was exactly like her nightmare.

  A high-heel shoe had stepped in drops of crimson. Whoever made the bloody trail must have run in circles trying to escape. A chalk outline of a body was drawn on the pavement. In the middle was a puddle of blood. Her stomach revolted, and she tightened her lips to keep bile from spewing onto the mess.

  A black body bag lay on a stretcher nearby. She forced her wobbly legs to move toward it.

  “Over here.” Hewitt nodded toward the street.

  She froze. Red spatters stained the bus’s metal grill and front window. Six feet away from the parked bus, a white sheet covered a lump. But it wasn’t a lump; it was a body. A still hand peeked out from under the sheet. The streetlight flickered off a snake ring on the middle finger. The hair on the back of her neck stood at attention. She knew that ring, had seen it a thousand times.

  “Rodriquez.” Hewitt rubbed his nasal bridge with his thumb and index finger.

  A muscular young paramedic jogged over. His uniform was impeccable except for the brown droplets that stained the fingertips of his white gloves. Her stomach revolted and she bit her lip.

  “Yes, sir?” Rodriquez asked.

  Hewitt dropped his hand. “Show her.”

  His tired voice struck her. The man hated this.

  “Miss?” Rodriquez knelt down to the sheet. A pink aura of compassion radiated around him. “Are you ready?”

  “I’m ready.” A lie. Her insides twisted into tight knots and her stomach threatened to let loose her dinner, but she would do this, do it for Rosemary.

  Rodriquez slowly pulled back the sheet. Long black hair half covered a bloody and bruised face. One eye was completely swollen, but the other brown eye stared into nothing. Heather couldn’t speak. She recognized the dangling silver earrings and the parrot tattoo on her neck.

  She wanted to lie, to say this wasn’t her sister. It was somebody else. But Rosemary’s yellow aura was gone. It would be exploring another plane, a plane with no pain. Too long, Rosemary had been in pain.

  Heather closed her eyes, wishing she was home in bed snuggling next to her Cocker Spaniel, Sadie, wishing this wasn’t real. Rosemary was alive and mad at her, like always, refusing to return phone calls or meet with her.

  “Miss, do you know her?”

  Heather opened her eyes. If she didn’t answer, then the snake ring belonged to someone else, and the battered face belonged to her sister’s impostor.

  Rodriquez stared, sadness filled his eyes.

  “Ma’am.”

  The spell broke. “Yes, it’s her. It’s Rosemary.”

  Heather didn’t even recognize her voice. It was empty, dead. “I should have gotten here faster. I could have stopped him.”

  Hewitt frowned. “Stopped who?”

  Tears rolled down Heather’s face. She clasped her hands together, then pressed them close to her mouth. “I’m sorry, sis.”

  Her voice croaked. She always was apologizing to Rosemary for something, and each time, Rosemary would roll her eyes. Could she blame her? How many times could you tell someone sorry before they stopped believing you? But she had been sincere.

  Hewitt touched her arm. “You’ve lost me. What did you mean by stop him?”

  “I told you. I dreamed this would happen.”

  “What would happen?” Hewitt’s heavy brows creased. “You mean this?” He gestured with his hand toward Rosemary’s lifeless body. “You couldn’t have predicted this—”

  “Yes, I could have. You don’t understand. I should have called you instead of driving down here myself. If I had, she still might be alive.”

  “Ms. Bowen, I know you’re upset.”

  “Of course, I’m upset. My sister’s dead, because of what that man did to her.”

  “What man?”

  She wiped away her tears. “He gives them something, then this happens.”

  “You mean her dealer?”

  “No, he’s not her dealer. I don’t know what you’d call him. Every time he shows up in my dream, this happens.”

  “Ma’am, you’re upset. The man isn’t real.”

  “Yes, he is. I’ve talked to him. He was here in the alley behind the convenience store.”

  The aura outlining Hewitt changed to a dark brownish yellow, meaning he didn’t trust her. “You actually met him here? Not in these so-called dreams.”

  Suspicion snuck into his voice. He was losing patience with her.

  Heather met his hostile gaze. “Don’t give me that crap. No, I’m not psychic, or at least, I wasn’t until a few months ago. All my life I could read auras. It’s second nature to me.” She sniffed. “A month ago, a dark haired man appeared in my dreams, then the murder suicides started to happen.”

  He looked at her as if she was a crazed gypsy.

  “Now, my sister is dead. No one believed me then. And no one believes me now.”

  Hewitt studied her and raised his eyebrow. “Ma’am, have you recently used alcohol or marijuana?”

  She stiffened. “No. I’m a licensed clinical social worker and work in the drug and alcohol field.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t use drugs.”

  “That doesn’t mean—”

  Heather held up her hand. “Fine, don’t believe me.” She was done talking to him. He thought she was crazy, or a strung-out addict. She knelt next to Rosemary an
d pushed her blood soaked hair out of her face. The silky strands caressed her fingers, and shivers ran up Heather’s arm. She caressed Rosemary’s cold, stiff hand. She missed her, missed her so much. “He’s out there. And he’s going to kill again.”

  She hushed her voice and wasn’t even sure Hewitt heard her, or if he did, even believed her.

  “Would you subject to a drug test?”

  She glanced up. “If I do, will you take a description of the man I saw?”

  “This isn’t negotiable. I want you to take it now.”

  “Well, Detective, you sure run hot and cold.”

  “Are you saying no to the drug test?”

  Heather glared. “No, I’ll take it.”

  Hewitt waved his hand. “Rodriquez.”

  Rodriquez hurried over. “Detective?”

  “I need you to draw her blood for a drug test.”

  Heather thought of saying no. She could. It was her right, but she’d look guilty as sin. “Fine.”

  She held her head high as if she had nothing to fear. “Fine.”

  “Tomorrow, I’d like you to come down to the stations for some questions. Tonight’s not the time.”

  “No shit.” She should be grateful, but she wasn’t—angry, devastated, frustrated, but definitely not grateful. Hewitt had already convicted her. Why she said anything, she’d never know.

  He glared.

  “Ms. Bowen, if you will follow me,” Rodriquez said, his voice shy.

  Heather sat on a metal stool in the ambulance and stared at Rosemary’s corpse. What time had Rosemary taken the drug? How long did it take her to become homicidal, then turn suicidal? Minutes, hours?

  Rodriquez held up a breathalyzer. “Blow, please.”

  Heather took a deep breath and exhaled. Her fingers tingled and she had to force herself to breath in and out. This was so surreal. Maybe she was dreaming and having another horrible dream.

  “You’re going to feel a sharp prick.” Rodriquez put tape on her above the crease in her elbow, then injected into her vein. “That didn’t hurt much, did it?”

  Her limbs tingled, then turned icy cold. She shivered.

  “How are you feeling?”

  She put her palm on her cool forehead. “I don’t know. How would you feel if you found out your dead sister was accused of being a psychotic murderer?”

  He put a Band-Aid on her bleeding arm. “I see your point.”

  “After they’re done investigating, where will they take my sister?”

  “To the morgue.”

  Morgue. It was so final. No exceptions. You’ll never pass Go. You’ll never cross the goal line. You’ll never get a golden ticket. The Reaper had your number. Tonight, he had Rosemary’s. Heather wiped her tears and swallowed the loss, choking out her words. “To do an autopsy?”

  Compassion filled his dark eyes. “I know this is hard. But in violent cases, the law requires an autopsy to be performed.”

  She nodded, but clamped her jaw tightly. If she said anything, she’d burst into tears. To avoid his perceptive gaze, she folded her hands on top of each other and stared at the tiny mole on her ring finger. Tonight, the coroner would dissect Rosemary as if she were a frog in biology class. Tonight, she’d be put on a cold slab and her toe tagged with a number or just her last name, then she’d be shoved into a cold metal drawer. The door would shut her into darkness forever. She’d never get married or have a baby. Those were her simple dreams, but now, they’d been stolen from her.

  “Miss Bowen?”

  Heather raised her head.

  Rodriquez squeezed her shoulder. “I know this isn’t much, but your sister died instantly. She didn’t linger in pain.”

  “Thank you.” Her tiny voice squeaked like a creaking rocking chair. “But it doesn’t help. I just miss her. I keep waiting for her to sit up and argue with me again and tell me to quit telling her what to do. To quit being so judgmental. But she won’t. She’s gone, and it’s all my fault.”

  3

  The following morning, Heather whipped her Pathfinder out of the garage, determined to convince Detective Hewitt not to rule Rosemary as a homicidal/suicidal junkie. A large lump of regret rotted in her gut. She missed Rosemary so much. There had been so much unsaid between them, so many ugly secrets.

  Last night, she’d tossed and turned going over what she should have said to Rosemary instead of holding onto her damn pride. She glanced in the rearview mirror and winced. Dark circles under her blood shot eyes made her face pale. How many people looked like Little Mary Sunshine after going to their sister’s funeral?

  She picked up her coffee cup and sipped. The hot brown liquid warmed her stiff limbs and chased away the tightness in her chest. She placed the coffee mug into the holder. How was she going to live without Rosemary? Tears threatened to fall again. She shook her head. “No. No more tears.”

  On the radio, Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger came on and she forced herself to sing. “Just a woman and her will to survive.”

  Rosemary had changed the lyrics and taught her they had to fight to be strong, to never give up. When they were in foster care, Rosemary had taught her to defend herself. “Look sis,” she said. “I can’t always be there to stop them. Always hold your fists in front of your face like this.”

  Heather grinned. She’d be nine and Rosemary twelve when they were placed in a foster home. Heather had been quite the scrapper and had knocked bullies twice her age on their asses. She glanced in the mirror and frowned. Rosemary had protected her at every angle. How did she repay her? By betraying her.

  The radio announcer said it was seven fifty-five. Oh, shit! She only had five minutes until the interrogation. Why was she always late? She’d taken too long in the shower trying to wake up. Susan was going to be so damn mad.

  She sped into the police parking and shoved her SUV into park. She jumped out and hurried inside.

  Susan paced back and forth. She stopped. “What took you so long?”

  “I’m sorry. I overslept.”

  “You don’t look well.” She motioned for the clerk to buzz them inside.

  “Thanks a lot.” Heather put her hand on her forehead.

  A police woman with short, dark, curly hair opened a glass door. Her shirt was stretched too tightly over her breasts and her body squeezed into the polyester pants. “This way.”

  When she walked, her thighs squished together. The clocks ticked loudly. Officers murmured on the phone. Heather’s nerves tightened and she had problems breathing. A calendar had a group of police officers smiling and a date was circled in red.

  Heather stopped. “Oh, no.”

  Susan turned. “What’s the matter?”

  Heather’s heart raced. “I forgot I have a damn interview today at ten o’clock for a new drug and alcohol counselor. Will this interview be done in time?”

  “Can’t anyone else do it?”

  Heather shook her head. “Not unless we wanted to be short on the floor, and with all the bizarre happenings at Serenity House, I can’t risk it.”

  “I’ll make sure were done in time. At least, I hope we are.”

  The officer gestured to a white pristine door. “Wait here. I’ll let them know you’re here.”

  “Thank you,” Susan said.

  Heather followed Susan into a small room with green walls and dull white tile. They each sat on metal chairs and waited. Heather wrinkled her nose. The scent of body odor and stale coffee lingered. The fluorescent light flickered overhead. It was as if she’d been transported into one of those television cop shows.

  The clock ticked slowly and Heather tapped her shoe. At this rate, she’d miss the interview.

  A pitcher was on the table. Susan picked up a Styrofoam cup and poured water. “Here, drink this. You need to be calm.”

  “I’m trying. What are they doing?”

  The door opened. Detective Hewitt and another younger man impeccably dressed in a black striped suit entered. With his perfect styled blond hair, crystal blues
, dimpled chin, he could rival any model on GQ magazine.

  Heather put the cup down and hid her shaking hand underneath the table.

  “Good morning.” Detective Hewitt sat opposite Heather. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Bowen.”

  “It’s not like I had a choice.”

  “I’m Detective Stan Mason.” His voice was ice cold. He sat next to Hewitt and clicked and twirled a pen in between his manicured fingers. He tilted his head. “This is Detective Hewitt.”

  “Yes, I know. We met.”

  Tiredness seeped into Hewitt’s green eyes. He scratched his bald head and yawned. He was one step away from retirement. “How are you doing today?”

  Heather squirmed in her seat. She didn’t like small talk. Small talk was just a way to hide uneasiness. She preferred people to be upfront. “As well as to be expected.” Her mouth went dry. She sipped the water, but it did nothing to moisten her mouth.

  Mason put his hands on the table and leaned forward slightly. “We need some answers about your sister’s drug use and the murder victim, Carolyn Carmichael.”

  She inhaled his leather and suede cologne and nearly choked on it. Didn’t he know that the bad guys would smell him way before they ever saw him? “I’ve never met Ms. Carmichael.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Ms. Bowen. Your sister was a cold blooded killer.”

  She stiffened. “I beg your pardon? Rosemary wasn’t a killer. Somebody drugged her and forced her to do it.”

  Mason snorted. “Yeah, right. Some mysterious force possessed your sister and made her murder an innocent woman.” He rolled his eyes. “Tell that to Carmichael’s grieving husband.”

  Hewitt cast Mason a stern look. “Lay off, Mason.” He turned to Heather. “First of all, Ms. Bowen, I’d like to offer you our condolences for your loss.”

  Heather relaxed her tense muscles. “Thank you.”

  She glanced between the two detectives, so this was the game they were going to play—good cop, bad cop?

  “When was the last time you saw your sister?”

  Hewitt’s voice softened.

  “About three weeks ago.”

  “That seems like a long time for you not to have contact.”