She'd searched these boxes before, as a nine-year-old child desperate to learn more about her new parents' life. She'd run her child's hands reverently over the lace baptismal dress, the red velvet Christmas dress, the hand-knit pink “blankie.” She'd examined the small bronzed shoes, the tiny handprint made in clay, the first works of Crayola art. She'd looked through the boxes feeling both guilty and enthralled, knowing she should stay away but consumed with the desire to know more.
This was all that remained of Meagan Stokes, and Melanie wanted to know about the real love in her family's life.
Melanie began with the box of photos.
They started with the Texas days. Jamie, Harper, and Patricia in an old white convertible; Jamie and Harper in pin-striped suits, looking like fifties gangsters; Jamie with his arms wrapped around a young, beautiful Patricia, beaming at the camera; Jamie shaking his head while a dashing young Harper kissed his future wife.
Wedding photos. Patricia and Harper inside a yawning cathedral, holding hands. Patricia wearing the perfect princess dress, flounces and flounces of white tulle cascading down her slender frame.
Outside with Jamie again, posing in a white tuxedo jacket with black trim as Harper's best man. Her godfather was still smiling, but now he stood far away from Patricia, often half cut out of the camera's lens. Despite what the three friends must have said, the wedding had changed things.
Suddenly, baby pictures. Brian Harper Stokes, February 25, 1963, 8 lbs. 10 oz. Brian being cradled in Harper's triumphant embrace. Patricia smiling tiredly. Brian crawling, Brian walking. Three-year-old Brian reaching for a figurine poised just out of his reach in a hallway. Three-year-old Brian looking stunned at the now-broken statue. Patricia's notation: “Brian's first encounter with art. When will he learn?”
Brian dressed up for Halloween as Satan. “Brian still in his ‘devil phase.' At least it suits him.”
Then Patricia was pregnant. Brian faded to the background. The lens focused in on tall, slender Patricia now radiantly in bloom. Patricia cradling her stomach. Patricia in profile, looking far away at something Melanie couldn't see. Patricia at a picnic, Brian running beside the blanket. Patricia very, very pregnant, holding up a stuffed bear for the camera. Brian's face barely visible behind her. Jamie's notation, “Pat 1968. Looking beautiful as always, lass.”
Melanie turned the page. Meagan. Patricia cradling the newborn against her breast, the ruddy face pudgy and sleepy, the tiny little hand forming a tiny little fist. Brian sitting beside his mother and newborn sister. Jamie, standing beside the hospital bed laughing, his thick finger securely caught in baby Meagan's tight little fist.
Suddenly both Brian and Meagan were growing up very fast. Picture of Brian feeding Meagan. Brian reading to Meagan. Brian pulling Meagan in a little red wagon, beaming happily.
Three Halloweens later, Brian still dressed up as the devil, but Meagan now at his side as Raggedy Ann. They were both smiling. Next photo, Patricia, Brian, and four-year-old Meagan Stokes, beaming into the camera, a beautiful young mother and her two incredibly happy, incredibly beautiful blond children.
Melanie put the album down. Her hands were shaking.
She knew what happened next. A hot, summer day in Texas. Patricia and Brian had left Meagan with the nanny one morning to go to the doctor. And something had occurred that afternoon so that Meagan Stokes ceased to exist on this earth.
They really had been such a perfect family.
There was no mention of Russell Lee Holmes in the box. No newspaper clippings of the case, not even condolence cards from the funeral. One page Meagan Stokes beamed for the camera, the next she was gone, the end of the story never given.
Melanie flipped through the book again. Jamie, Harper, and Patricia. Harper and Patricia. Baby Brian. Brian growing up. Pregnant Patricia, baby Meagan. Meagan and Brian.
Something niggled at the back of her mind.
Pregnant Patricia, baby Meagan. Meagan and Brian.
She couldn't get it. What she wanted haunted her, a word on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't get it.
Pregnant Patricia, baby Meagan. Meagan and Brian—
Oh, Jesus! Where was Harper? Why wasn't there a single picture of her father with his new baby girl?
Abruptly a sound came from upstairs. The front door opening, then slamming shut. Footsteps on the floor above her head.
Someone was home. Melanie scrambled to replace the photo album. The Meagan boxes were sacred, and at the rate things were going these days, she didn't want to be caught rifling through them.
More footsteps. Crossing the hall into the living room, moving down the back hallway toward the office . . . Harper then. He'd returned from the hospital and was now going to catch up on his paperwork.
Melanie crept up the old wooden stairs, cracked the door, and seeing that the coast was clear, sneaked into the foyer. Seconds later she stood in front of the hallway mirror, dusting off her hands, her denim shorts, and blue and yellow top.
She could hear Harper banging around in his study; from the sound of it, he was not in a good mood.
She surveyed her reflection one last time and decided, what the hell.
Her father was never generous when backed into a corner, but sometimes, on his own, he'd been known to reach the independent conclusion that he was wrong. She could start with her own apology, see what he would do. It was worth a shot.
Melanie walked into her father's office. She expected to find Harper in green surgical scrubs hunched over his desk.
She found William Sheffield, surrounded by flying papers and holding a gun.
WILLIAM WAS HAVING a bad day, a bad week, a bad life. But he was coming out on top of this mess at whatever the price. He just needed proof. Surely Harper had some financial records somewhere.
“William?” A female voice called from the doorway. “What are you doing here?”
William stilled, turned slowly. He saw Melanie standing in the doorway, with her hands stuck in her back pockets. Her gaze rested on his gun warily.
“William?” she asked again.
“You shouldn't be here, Mel,” he said. He'd thought the house was empty. He'd thought it would be a simple in and out. But now she'd seen him, and sweet Melanie always told Daddy everything. He couldn't have that.
“What are you doing, William?”
“Enjoying your house.” He gestured at the expensively paneled and decorated room. “Quite the place. I've always wondered what it would be like to come home to this day after day. Who would've thunk my mama would've been kinder if she'd drugged me up and dropped me off at an emergency room?”
“You need to leave,” Melanie said coolly. “Harper's not here right now, so you shouldn't be in his office.”
“Well, you know what?” William strode toward her, catching her off guard and making her gaze flicker once more to his gun. “I don't give a flying fuck what you think. You're just Harper's adopted daughter and you don't know jack shit!”
“William . . .”
She tried to retreat. He knew she'd never seen him as a threat before—but now he charged, and had the satisfaction of seeing her gaze widen with fear. Too late. William pinned her against the wall.
“Move away,” she said.
“Why, Mel? I've already seen all of you. Already had all of you.”
“Dammit, William—”
He grabbed her hair and yanked. She yelped and immediately blinked back tears. She'd always liked to play tough, play cool. William decided it was time for a little change. Time to finally have some fun at Harper's expense.
“Getting it yet, Mel?”
“I don't . . . no.”
“Of course you don't. You know, for a supposedly smart woman, you don't know shit about your family. Yeah, that's right. Stare at me defiantly, try to think you're better than me. You're not better, Mel, you're just more naïve. After all, I figured out your father in less than five minutes, and you still haven't a clue after twenty fucking years. Who's so
smart now?”
He yanked her hair again cruelly. This time she couldn't suppress the hiss of pain. He liked that.
“Your fine daddy thinks he has me beat,” William drawled. “He thinks he can set me up to take the fall for all his little illegal operations and I'd be too stupid to figure it out. Yeah, you don't know about that either, do you, Mel?” William swept the barrel of the gun casually around the study. “See all this, sweetheart? Tainted. Your daddy may be the best cardiac surgeon in Boston, but he knows nothing about money. Man digs himself in deeper and deeper all the time. But do you think that means he cuts back, keeps his family in any less style? Oh, no, not the great Harper Stokes.
“He simply concocts a plan to slice open innocent old folks and slap pacemakers in their chest. ‘Nobody gets hurt,' he likes to say. ‘Insurance companies can afford it.' Now, how is that for class, Melanie? How is that for your dear old dad?”
Her lips trembled. But then Melanie looked him in the eye and stated in that cool tone he hated so much, “I don't know what you're talking about.”
He rewarded her brave words by slapping her hard. She didn't wince, which disappointed him, but her bottom lip cracked. Flecks of blood appeared. The lip began to swell.
William said, “Well, say good-bye to Daddy, darling, because I have no intention of coming home to another surprise gift. You get what you deserve, my ass. I spotted that FBI agent at the hospital. I know what the hell he's up to, and I sure as hell am not going to take the fall.”
“Oh, my God. You got a note.”
“A note?” He frowned at her angrily. “I didn't get a note. I got a goddamn message scrawled across my mirror in blood. Who would've thought your father had it in him?”
Melanie was shaking her head. “But how are you connected with Russell Lee Holmes? Did you know Meagan?”
“What?” William didn't know what she was talking about and didn't care. He shut her up by pressing his body against hers, watching her gaze flicker more frantically.
“You want to know the truth, Mel? I'll give it to you straight, you dumb little fool. Your father is a con man who would rather slice open healthy people than admit that he's broke. Your mother is an unstable lush who can't keep her own husband satisfied, and your brother is a fucking fruitcake who can only get it up for men. And to top it all off, your godfather is little more than a dressed-up thug. Now, how is that for a sweet family portrait? Two criminals, a lush, and a fag. And what does that make you, Melanie? It makes you a patsy. The world's biggest patsy, conned for over twenty years. How do you like that?”
William smiled. Melanie's chin came up like she wanted a fight. But he could also read doubt in her eyes, a bit of pleading, as if she wanted him to take the words back. Like hell.
He leaned back and casually smacked her across the face. “How dare you dump me like that, you stupid bitch.”
“How dare you treat me like shit!” she cried, and tried to knee him. He blocked her easily. Then he reached down, caught her wrist, and began to squeeze.
“I need the combination for the safe, Melanie. I need all of Harper's papers.”
“I don't know it—”
He let go of her wrist and pistol-whipped her. Her head hit the wall, then she slid down to the floor, her eyes blinking groggily.
“Larry Digger.”
“What are you talking about? I want the combination for the safe!”
“Did my father . . . did my father shoot Larry Digger?”
William shook his head. “I don't even know what you're talking about. Harper's into money, not murder. Now, I want that combination.”
“What happened to Meagan?” she murmured. “What did they do to Meagan?”
“Forget fucking Meagan. Give me the combination, or I'm going to kill you.”
He wrapped her long hair around his left hand and in one quick tug jerked her back up to her feet.
And the rest simply happened.
Sweet Melanie Stokes drove her shoulder into his gut. Air whooshed out of his lungs. She slammed the broad part of her hand into his sternum and stomped on his foot.
“Fuck!”
He hopped back, cursing, and finally getting the gun between them.
“Fuck you!” he heard himself screaming. “I'm going to kill you, bitch. I'm going to fucking blow your brains—”
“Stop it,” she gasped, gripping his hand, wrestling for control.
The gun went off with a blast. They froze in the middle of the torn-up study. William's eyes were wide, startled. Melanie gazed at him with equal shock as he slowly slipped to the floor.
Now she could see the hole in his gut. Blood was pouring everywhere. It was on her hands, on the papers, on the floor. Just like Larry Digger, she thought.
“Mi Dios!” a voice breathed in the silence.
Melanie turned to find María standing in the door-way, holding bags of groceries.
“I didn't mean to,” Melanie began weakly.
María whirled and ran. Belatedly Melanie realized she was still holding the gun in her hands and her arms were splattered in blood.
All she'd ever wanted was a family. People who would love her. People who would be there for her. A place that would finally be home.
Lies and blood. Lies and blood.
Her body moved on its own.
She grabbed her purse. She burst out of the front door of her house. She started running, and she didn't stop.
TWENTY-FIVE
L AIRMORE WAS RIPPING new assholes for his investigating agents when David's beeper went off.
“Got to take this,” David said calmly, and left the conference room. Lairmore grumbled something unkind, but David ignored him.
The number on his beeper was not one David recognized, but his call was picked up immediately. The sound of background traffic and voices filled the line.
“This is Riggs,” he said.
There was a moment of silence, then he knew it was her. “Melanie?”
“You lied to me.”
“Melanie, where are you?”
“You told me you weren't investigating my family. You told me it was William you were looking into. I bet you slept well that night. The super agent did his job.”
“Melanie, listen to me. I'm trying to help you—”
“Fuck you, David Riggs. How dare you lie to me. How dare you not tell me the truth after everything we went through.”
“Melanie—”
“The shooting was accidental, just so you know. William was going to kill me. You can tell that to my family, but I don't know if they'll care. I don't know what they care about at this point. I guess you were right, and I didn't know them at all.”
“Melanie, tell me exactly where you are. I'll be there in minutes.”
“No. No more games. No more manipulations. From the very beginning I've let everyone mess with me. Well, now I'm doing this my way. Good-bye.”
The phone clicked. David swore furiously, earning a round of stares. Lairmore came out of the conference room, trailed by Chenney.
“Riggs!” the supervisory agent warned.
David grabbed his coat. “Get Detective Jax on the line. That was Melanie Stokes. According to her, she just shot William Sheffield.”
THE STOKES HOUSE had suddenly become a very popular place. Two ambulances and three police cars barricaded the front, blue lights flashing and uniformed officers milling. Two TV stations had arrived in camera-mounted vans; the local ABC affiliate was probably not far behind.
Between the reporters, the neighbors peering from doorways and windows, and the tourists who were snapping photos, traffic on the whole four-lane street had ground to a halt.
David Riggs yanked over his car one block away and ran the rest, Chenney huffing and puffing at his heels. He'd tried calling Melanie back without success. Then he'd gotten Detective Jax long enough to be told there had been a shooting all right, and Boston homicide had a few questions for their good friends at the Bureau.
David fla
shed his creds to the patrolmen. Chenney simply muscled his way through. They followed the stream of crime photographers, homicide detectives, and beat officers to the study at the rear of the house. Patricia Stokes stood in a corner, her thin arms crossed in front of her and a jeweled hand fluttering at the hollow of her throat. She looked confused and frightened, as if the slightest sound would shatter her.
Her husband was in the opposite corner, scowling and rumpled. He must have just been called from surgery. He had a green mask down around his neck and his arms akimbo on his hips, the stance belligerent.
Jamie O'Donnell occupied the doorway. He had already adopted a careful expression of both concern and distrust.
“Of course María tried to clean things up,” Harper was saying tersely. “She's a maid, it's her job.”
“She tampered with a crime scene,” Jax pointed out, standing in front of Harper.
Harper shrugged. “How's she supposed to know that? She thought she was just doing her job.”
David saw Jax's point immediately. The blood was not in a clear puddle or splatter pattern but instead had been smeared all over the floor, making it hard to interpret the scene. On the perimeter of the streaky mess, the blood formed razor-crisp lines at random intervals, as if it had spread along the edge of pieces of paper. The paper was gone. One could interpret that scene as William being shot, incriminating documents at his feet.
Detective Jax seemed to have arrived at that conclusion himself. “If I find out you had anything to do with this, Dr. Stokes, I'll bust your rich hide for interfering with an investigation, tampering with a crime scene, and aiding and abetting. Just so you know.”
Harper smiled tightly. “You do that, Detective, and my lawyer will eat your badge for lunch.”
“Please,” Patricia interjected in a tremulous voice. “Can you tell me what happened to Melanie? Where is my daughter? Is she all right?”