The Other Daughter

  “We're still looking for her, ma'am.”

  “I'm sure she didn't do this on purpose,” she continued desperately. “There was no reason for her to hurt William.”

  “We don't know that.” Harper glanced at his wife wearily. “After that scene yesterday? Face it, Pat, our daughter is obviously very troubled these days. Maybe she took the end of her engagement with William much harder than either of us thought. I don't know.”

  “Harper!” Patricia exclaimed.

  “She's been having migraines and not sleeping well! She didn't even come home the night before. I'm not going to lie to these people. You and I don't know a thing about our children anymore.”

  David wasn't thinking. One moment he was standing beside Chenney, listening to Harper incriminate his own daughter, the next moment he was across the room, grabbing a fistful of Harper's scrubs and shoving the startled surgeon against the wall.

  “Don't you set her up for this,” David growled. “You don't give a rat's ass about this investigation. William's death is the best thing to happen for you and your little operations. God, this is just a game to you, isn't it? You could've gotten her killed. Do you hear me? You almost killed your daughter. Again!”

  “D-d-dammit,” Harper spluttered. “Let me go!”

  “Easy there,” O'Donnell said softly from behind David. “Easy there, sport.”

  Slowly David became aware that the only person in the room surprised by what was going on was Patricia Stokes. Harper, who was being strangled by a man he'd met only as a waiter, was not surprised. Jamie O'Donnell, faced by two men he'd never seen before, was not surprised.

  They knew. They knew who David was and who Chenney was, and probably more about the investigation than the federal agents did.

  David released Harper. He stepped back briskly and split his gaze between Harper and Jamie.

  “How?” David asked.

  Both men gave him blank looks.

  “No,” David said, shaking his head. “I don't buy it. I don't think even you two realized what Sheffield would do when pushed too hard. I bet you figured he was a spineless shit, just like we did. But he came up with his own agenda, didn't he? Did the stupid thing and put everything in jeopardy. In fact, the only person today who's shown an ounce of common sense is Melanie, isn't it? She's outplaying you. Outplaying us all.”

  A muscle spasmed in O'Donnell's jaw. “Don't know what you're talking about, sport.”

  “Sure you do. Congratulations on putting your goddaughter in danger. It's not every day a man almost gets a beautiful young woman killed. But then, you must be getting used to that feeling, huh, O'Donnell? By my calculations, this makes two. First your hired gun, and now your hired lackey. I think you're getting old.”

  O'Donnell's gaze went black, confirming David's stab in the dark. “Be careful, sport. Be very, very careful.”

  David just smiled. “I'd say ditto, sport, because I'm getting smarter every day and a whole lot closer. You know there's no statute of limitations on homicide, don't you? Especially of a little girl. Especially of a poor, helpless little girl who had no idea what you were capable of. I bet she loved her family too. Just like Melanie.”

  He strode for the door. Behind him, he heard Patricia say, “What's that man talking about? What has happened to Melanie? Has anyone thought to call Brian?”

  “By Brian, do you mean Brian Stokes?” Jax inquired.

  “Of course,” Patricia said, sounding even more bewildered.

  “His ‘friend' filed a missing persons report two hours ago. Seems Brian Stokes went out for a walk two days ago and hasn't been seen since.”

  The news apparently was too much. With a small cry Patricia fainted. Her husband didn't catch her. Jamie O'Donnell did.

  “WOULD YOU MIND telling me what is going on?” Chenney panted, barely keeping up with David outside the house. David strode down the sidewalk, his back killing him and the rest of him beyond caring.

  “We got a leak. We've never met them before, and yet they knew who we were.”

  “Shit,” Chenney said. “Think Melanie told them?”

  “Melanie didn't know I was investigating her father.” David reached the car. He yanked open the driver-side door with more force than necessary and climbed in. Chenney rushed to catch up. “Don't answer to anyone but Lairmore at this point. Things are just beginning. They weren't surprised by my comments about Meagan either. They knew exactly what I was talking about.”

  “They were in on it.”

  “Up to their eyeballs.” David shoved the car into drive, then frowned. “Except for Patricia. She had no idea what was going on.”

  “Yo, where are we going?”

  “Brian Stokes's condo, of course. Where else could Melanie have gone?”

  David pulled away with a roar.

  Chenney said after a while: “You lost it back there. I mean, you lost it. Lairmore hears about you going after Harper Stokes like that, you'll be suspended for a month.”

  David didn't reply.

  TWENTY-SIX

  B RIAN STOKES'S CONDO reminded David of a sterile museum. He and Chenney got the building maintenance man to let them in; apparently his services came with the condo fees. Once inside the third story residence, they found themselves confronted by four rooms filled only with crystal-clear glass, chrome frames, and one black leather sofa.

  “There's not even a family portrait on the wall,” Chenney said.

  “He isn't so pleased with his family.”

  “The adopted daughter is grateful for her parents,” Chenney murmured, “the older son is dying to give them away. Can you imagine these guys on Family Feud?”

  “Only if they were playing opposite the Donner party.”

  They drifted from room to room. Not a speck of dust, a streak of lint, or a stray item of clothing. The man could've given David and his own brother lessons all those years ago.

  “Just beer and yogurt in the fridge,” Chenney reported.

  “No messages on the machine,” David said, then frowned. “Can you really believe after two days there're no messages on the machine?”

  “Maybe he calls in and checks them. Those machines let you do that these days.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  They gave the condo a second pass. Brian seemed very neat and no-frills. A troubled young man, David thought, because no sane person kept anything that sanitized.

  The maintenance man claimed not to have seen any blondes entering the building that day, but he also confessed a weakness for daytime soaps. He hadn't seen Brian around. Not that he noticed the male residents much, he said with a shrug, hitching up his slacks and rubbing his beer gut. Some of them were definitely swinging on the wrong side of the field, if you know what he meant, and he didn't want them to get no ideas about him.

  Chenney and David headed back downstairs. They'd just reached their automobile when a voice stopped them.

  “Special Agent Riggs, Chenney.”

  Both agents turned as one, Chenney going for his gun. Brian Stokes stepped out of a shadowed doorway. He looked as if he hadn't slept a minute in days.

  “You can let go of the gun, Chenney,” David said dryly. “I don't think Brian Stokes is here for a showdown.”

  “I just want to talk,” Brian seconded.

  “Do you know where your sister is?”

  Brian shook his head. “I just got a message. That's my role in the family.”

  “And was that your role twenty-five years ago when Meagan disappeared?”

  Brian looked at him curiously. “You think Meagan was my fault,” he said, and then smiled. “Of course. It's nothing I haven't thought myself.”

  “Brian—”

  “Come with me, Agent. There's something I need to show you and something I should have told you. Something I should've told everyone a long time ago.”

  THEY FOLLOWED BRIAN Stokes on foot, passing block after block of neat brick town houses lined up like toy soldiers. A few streets over, Brian led
them into a narrow street lined with older but still stately—and expensive—homes. He let himself into the last one with a key. A flower box filled with yellow daffodils waved to them as they passed through the heavy wood door, but none of them noticed.

  “My . . . friend lives here,” Brian said at last, leading them up the stairs.

  “You mean your lover.”

  “You could say that. In theory, no one knew the name of the man I'm seeing or the fact that I often spend the night at his house.”

  “In theory?”

  “Tuesday morning I received a package. Hand-delivered to my name, here, at his place.”

  David and Chenney exchanged looks. “And you've been hiding out ever since?” David asked.

  “I needed some time to think.”

  “And the missing persons report?”

  “I asked Nate to do that. To throw him off the trail.”

  “Him?”

  “I don't know, Agent. I was hoping you could tell me.”

  They reached the third floor. Brian unlocked the front door and led them both inside, disappearing almost immediately into the kitchen. This condo celebrated hardwood floors, a redbrick wall, and piles and piles of suede pillows and soft wool rugs—it was everything Brian Stokes's condo wasn't.

  “Is Nate home?” David asked. One question was solved. This was definitely Brian's “home,” and the other residence mere window dressing.

  “At work. He's a doctor as well.”

  “And Melanie. When did you see her?”

  Brian reemerged from the kitchen, carrying a cardboard box and giving David an impatient look. “I already told you, I haven't seen her.”

  “But you know William Sheffield has been shot.”

  “I checked my machine thirty minutes ago. Two messages. The first was from Melanie. She sounded so calm, I almost thought it was a joke. She said William had tried to shoot her, but she'd shot him instead. She wanted me to know that she was all right. Then she mentioned your name and that you were investigating our father, probably with good cause. Then she said—”

  Brian's voice faltered. “She said she knew Russell Lee Holmes hadn't killed Meagan. And then she said—” His voice broke again. He cleared his throat forcefully. “She said that she loved me. And she thanked me for the last twenty years.”

  Brian's gaze was fixed on the box in front of him. His jaw was tense, and David could see a muscle spasm. Then he got it. Brian didn't just have a small self-confidence issue. He loathed himself. He genuinely loathed himself and held himself responsible for all the bad things that happened in his family—including the fates of his sisters.

  “You said you had a second message?”

  “From my godfather. He's been leaving three a day. He also told me about William's shooting. He said he knew something was up and that we really needed to talk about it. Seems that he got a gift too. I think they all have.”

  “They all have?”

  “My mom, Dad, Jamie, Melanie, and me. Everyone who was involved back then, though some of us remember it more than others. Let me show you.”

  He lifted the lid of the cardboard box. There, resting on white tissue paper was a blackened, shriveled cow's tongue.

  Brian looked at them both. “It came with a note, ‘You get what you deserve,' but I know what it's talking about. I'd already lost my sister, you see. I didn't want to lose my father too.”

  David sat down. He got out his spiral notebook and picked up a pen. “Let's start at the beginning here, because I'm dying for answers and we got a lot for you to explain. Where were you the day Meagan Stokes was kidnapped? What did you and your mother do?”

  Brian took a deep breath and then, staring at the dried cow's tongue, he began.

  “I wasn't a good kid, all right? In this day and age they'd probably diagnose me with attention deficit disorder. Back then I was simply hyper and high-strung and no one, least of all my mother, knew what to do with me. Frankly, our family wasn't sweetness and light back then either. I don't know how my parents started their marriage, but by the time I came along, my father seemed to be a withdrawn workaholic who gave his best at the office and had nothing left for home. Mom was hurt and sullen half the time, spending money as a hobby, doing anything to get attention. I think I was eight when I figured out it was worse than that—that Dad wasn't always working late, that my mom knew about the other women and seemed hell-bent on becoming a bit of a party animal on her own. I don't know, it was like being raised by a robot and a sixteen-year-old. Nobody ever said anything bad about the other, but, the undercurrents when they were both in a room . . . Kids just know these things, okay?”

  “Yeah,” Chenney said heavily, which earned him a surprised look by both David and Brian. He shrugged. Apparently he did know.

  “Then Meagan came along,” Brian continued after a moment. “She was so sweet, always smiling. No matter what happened, she'd beam and hold out her hands to you. Everyone loved her. Women in supermarkets, for God's sake, the neighbors, stray dogs. If you had a pulse, you automatically loved Meagan Stokes and she automatically loved you. Sure as hell no one ever thought that about me. And, yeah, I was jealous. I'd get angry. But . . . but I wasn't immune to her either, Agent. Even when I was jealous I loved her. Sometimes I even crept into her room at night just to watch her sleep. She was so peaceful, so happy. I never understood how my family could create a little girl who was so happy.

  “And then I would grow afraid. I would think that my parents would ruin her too. She would love them like I did, and they would make her pay. Harper would abandon her and Patricia would grow bored, and she'd realize one day that her parents were two completely self-centered, overindulged people. I started breaking her toys, stealing her stuff. I kept thinking if I was mean enough, she'd get strong, learn to protect herself. I hurt her and I still believed I was doing her a favor.” He smiled lopsidedly. “Welcome to the Stokes version of family.”

  “And that last day? What did you do then?”

  “I had fun, Agent. I honestly enjoyed life for a moment, and that was probably my biggest sin. That day . . . that day was my fourth therapy appointment. Afterward the shrink asked to speak to my mother alone. I don't know what he said. But she took me for ice cream, though it was only eleven in the morning. She even had some, and this is a woman who's dined on grapefruit and dry wheat toast for the last fifty years. We hung out, Agent, I don't know how else to describe it.

  “After a while Mom told me that things would be different. The family was having a rough spell and she understood that they'd been pretending I didn't know what was really going on. She would spend more time with me. She and my father would work things out. She realized now that her family meant more to her than anything, and she was prepared to do whatever was necessary to hold it together. She told me she loved me, she really loved me, and everything would be all right.

  “We played in the park after that. She pushed me on the swing even though I was too old to be pushed, and I liked it. I remember thinking that I was almost happy, and it was sort of curious and strange. I wasn't sure I'd ever been happy before.

  “Then we went home and the police officer told us Meagan was gone. Just like that. Are you a fatalist, Agent?” Brian smiled. “I sure as hell am.”

  “You were with your mother all day?”

  “All day.”

  “Did you see Meagan get into the nanny's car?”

  “No. We left before they did.”

  “Brian, do you know absolutely that Russell Lee Holmes kidnapped Meagan Stokes?”

  “I honestly thought he had,” Brian said. “I insist, if the devil had a human face, Agent Riggs, it would look like Russell Lee Holmes.”

  David frowned. He believed Brian Stokes. So if Brian and Patricia were together all day and had nothing to do with Meagan Stokes's death . . .

  “Then what about the tongue?” he asked in frustration. “If you had nothing to do with your sister's kidnapping, why the ‘gift'?”

  Br
ian thinned his lips. “I'm not sure. The shrine in Melanie's room caught me off guard. That she might be Russell Lee Holmes's daughter . . . God, I don't know. All I can say is that there were some things the police didn't catch back then, and someone seems intent on getting out that info now. For example, three nights ago my godfather got a penis in a jar. Three guesses as to why.”

  “Him and Patricia?”

  “Yep. In spite of what people might think, not all of my parents' problems were caused by Dad's work habits.” Brian shrugged, took a deep breath. “As for the tongue . . . My father didn't have a hundred thousand dollars for ransom money back then. He was just an overworked resident still trying to pay off his student loans, let alone keep up with my mother. So Jamie supplied the money. I was there when he arrived with the briefcase filled with one hundred thousand dollars in cold, hard cash. And—”

  Brian looked up, met their gazes. “And I was there to see that my father did not take that briefcase to the drop site. He took his briefcase instead. Empty. I know, because when I spotted Jamie's briefcase under my parents' bed, I pulled it out and opened it. All that cash, sitting right there. Do you get it? My father didn't pay the ransom. He was so damn greedy, he kept the money for himself. And Russell Lee Holmes . . . Russell Lee Holmes killed my baby sister.”

  Brian's breath came out in angry gasps. “And I never said a word. I never went to the cops or Jamie or my mom or anyone. I just stared at Harper night after night, watching him eat dinner and assure my mom it would be all right. Night after night. He lied through his teeth, sold out my sister for a hundred thousand dollars, and I never had the courage to call him on it. Never. Goddammit, I wanted to say it so badly and I couldn't. I just fucking couldn't!”

  Brian swept the cardboard box off the oak coffee table. It didn't do him any good. The tongue tumbled out, then lay on the rug in plain sight.

  “Shit,” he said after a moment. Then again, “Shit.”

  David shared that thought. So Brian and Patricia Stokes hadn't harmed Meagan. The family had not rushed into cover-up mode to protect their son. If Meagan had been harmed, it had to have been by Jamie or Harper, and it had to have been cold-blooded murder.