9 Kill for Me

  Talia blew out a breath. “When did the new trial happen, ma’am?”

  “Almost thirteen years ago.”

  It was like a kick in the ribs. “Not a coincidence,” Susannah whispered.

  “I agree,” Talia said quietly. “Mrs. Linton, who helped your daughter get a new trial?”

  “A lawyer from Legal Aid.” She looked from Talia to Susannah. “A different one than Marcy had the first time. His name was Alderman.”

  Susannah closed her eyes. “He represented Gary Fulmore.”

  “He died soon after he got Marcy out,” Mrs. Linton said. “He had a car accident.”

  “Mrs. Linton,” Talia said, “were any others involved in your daughter’s release?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’ll have to ask my husband. He’s gone for a walk. It’s what he does when he gets angry about Marcy. I’ll ask him when he comes back.”

  “Thank you,” Talia said. “Here’s my card. Please call me if you remember anything, no matter how small it seems. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  Susannah followed Talia, turning when Mrs. Linton said her name. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Linton said hoarsely. “For burying my daughter in a nice place.”

  Susannah’s throat closed. “You’re welcome. I’ll make sure she’s moved to a nice place here. Pick the spot and let me know.”

  Susannah waited for Talia to start the engine, conscious of Mrs. Linton watching them from the window. “Go back to Main Street,” she said. “But head away from town.”

  “Where are we going?” Talia asked.

  “To my parents’ house. Hurry, before I lose my nerve.”

  Charlotte, North Carolina, Monday, February 5, 12:05 p.m.

  Still reeling from the discovery of an Atlanta cop observing Genie Cassidy’s abduction, Harry called the one person he trusted to guide him through what could be a sticky situation. “Steven, it’s Harry.”

  “Hey. I was just getting ready to call you.”

  Harry’s heart sank. “You found Dr. Cassidy in Lake Gordon?”

  “Only his car. Now we’re searching the shoreline. Harry, what’s wrong?”

  “God, Steven. I’ve fallen into a mess.” He told his old boss about the Crown Vic.

  “Holy hell, Harry. Are you sure?”

  “That the car is registered to Houston, yes. Who’s behind the wheel I can’t say.”

  “Have you called APD?”

  “Not yet. I was wondering where to start. I could call the administrative office and get Paul Houston’s boss, but his boss might ask him directly. If Houston is dirty, I don’t want to risk tipping him off. I could call Atlanta’s Internal Affairs, but . . . hell, Steven.”

  Steven was quiet a moment. “Do you trust this Papadopoulos?”

  “Yeah. I think so. More than IA, anyway.”

  “Then call him. Tell him what you found. Let him field the flak.”

  “Seems cowardly.”

  “Well, door number two is IA.”

  “I’ll call Papadopoulos.”

  “I thought so. Call me if you need anything more.”

  Springdale, Monday, February 5, 12:25 p.m.

  Talia waited until they were on the main road. “Why are we going to your parents’ house, Susannah?”

  “My father kept records. Borenson came to our house often. They scratched each other’s backs.”

  “But in Marcy’s case, Borenson reversed your father’s initial ruling.”

  “Right after Borenson presided over Gary Fulmore’s trial, which we know was dirty. My father wouldn’t have been happy about being overruled.”

  “Do you remember an argument between them?”

  “No. But when Alicia Tremaine turned up dead in that ditch, my mother somehow knew Simon was involved. She went to Frank Loomis and begged him to ‘fix it.’ So he framed Gary Fulmore, a drifter who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and too high to know what was happening. Alderman was Fulmore’s defense attorney. The only evidence Loomis had was Alicia’s ring in Fulmore’s pocket and a little blood on his clothes. There were huge holes in the case. Judge Borenson should have seen. He should have seen.”

  “A jury convicted Fulmore, Susannah. Borenson may not have been involved.”

  “We both know a jury convicts based on the evidence they’re allowed to hear. Who knows if Borenson allowed Alderman to present a proper case?”

  “And a few months later, Alderman stands before Borenson again and gets Marcy Linton released.”

  “I wonder if Alderman knew Fulmore’s case was tainted and somehow threatened Borenson.” Susannah pulled her laptop from her brief- case. “I wonder how many cases Alderman won between Marcy Linton and the day he died.” Talia drove as she searched. “Looks like Alderman defended five people between Marcy Linton’s second trial and his death. He drew Borenson two of those five times and won both cases. He lost the other three.”

  “Not definitive,” Talia said. “And we can’t ask him, because he’s dead.”

  “Let’s say Alderman knew something—why didn’t he use it to get Fulmore off? That was a much more high-profile case. It would have been a huge feather in his cap.”

  “Either Alderman didn’t find out till later or he chose to leverage what he knew on future cases.”

  “That’s what I think.” Susannah stiffened as her old house came into view. The bile started to rise in her throat and she resolutely, audibly, swallowed it back.

  Talia glanced over again, her expression worried. “You okay?”

  “No. But we’re going in anyway. Because even if Alderman had information that Borenson ran a dirty trial, it doesn’t explain Darcy’s death and the fact that Granville’s thích was at the bunker within the last few weeks. There’s a connection. I know it.”

  “My gut says you’re right. I hope we find something concrete to back it up.”

  “My father kept detailed records on everything, and Daniel and I know most of his hiding places. I knew I’d have to come back here and find his records. I’ve been dreading it, just like Luke is dreading those pictures on Mansfield’s hard drive.”

  “Do you have a key?” Talia asked.

  Susannah nodded grimly. “Frank Loomis gave it to me after my parents’ funeral.”

  Talia just sighed. “Let me call in our location, and we’ll get started looking.”

  Bobby froze, her hand poised on the frame of a very expensive painting hanging in an upstairs parlor. She’d found four wall safes behind equally expensive paintings throughout the house and another safe in the floor of the judge’s bedroom. Now she slid her hand away from the frame at the sound of car doors slamming outside.

  Women’s voices. Carefully she crept to the window, and nodded, satisfied. One of the women had been at the press conference the day before, standing next to the women on the stage. She was GBI. The other was none other than Susannah.

  A thrill ran down Bobby’s spine. She’d been wondering how she’d force Susannah to open the safes. Now Susannah had been dumped in her lap, like a gift. She’d have to get rid of the agent, but that’s what guns were for. Bobby was well-stocked, having found a stash of weapons in the attic while searching for heirlooms. Untraceable guns, switchblades, tasers, all hidden beneath yards of Christmas garland.

  Peace on earth, indeed.

  Atlanta, Monday, February 5, 12:25 p.m.

  Luke continued to click through each picture in Mansfield’s Sweetpea file. After an hour, all he’d seen were Granville and the victims. So many victims. He had to focus on the background detail to keep his sanity.

  “He took these with a hidden camera,” Luke said, just to hear his own voice and not the cries he imagined coming from each victim as she was tortured.

  “Granville’s clothes change seasonally a couple of times,” Nate said. “The angle also changes. I wonder what Mansfield had the camera hidden in.”

  “I’m betting the camera was in a pen clipped to his pocket. He
mostly gets shots of Granville’s torso and shoes. I wish he’d date stamped the damn things. We could have cut right to pictures taken during the last two weeks.”

  “That’s the problem with all of his pictures. They’re organized by predilection, but not by time. It’ll be hard to figure out when the pictures were taken and how old the kids would even be by now.”

  Luke stiffened as his mind registered a detail in the next photo. “Wait.”

  Nate was leaning forward, eyes narrowed. On the edge of the picture were a man’s trousers, the legs bent at the knee. “Whoever’s wearing them was sitting down.”

  “But look at the shoes.” Luke pointed with his pen. “The soles.”

  Nate sucked in a breath. “One’s thicker than the other. Special shoes.”

  Luke’s mind had run through all the men in the town and already come to a conclusion before his eyes lifted to the board behind the monitor to where the stills hung. He pointed to the still of the three barbershop bench men, sitting in folding chairs near Sheila’s graveside. “The one on the end, with the walking stick. His name is Charles Grant. He was Daniel’s English teacher.” Quickly he dialed Chloe. “It’s Luke. I think I have an ID on the man Monica Cassidy heard in the bunker. Charles Grant.”

  “Grant?” Chloe repeated, stunned. “Isn’t he Daniel’s teacher? The one that gave us information on Mack O’Brien?”

  “Just when we needed it,” Luke said bitterly. “Just like the information supplied by Kate Davis, aka Rocky.”

  “This is going to kill Daniel,” Chloe said.

  “Let’s get word to him, so that it doesn’t,” Luke said tersely. “I need a warrant.”

  “You got a clear ID?”

  “Not his face,” Luke said. “Just his shoes.”

  “I don’t know if I can get you a warrant on shoes, Luke.”

  “Dammit, Chloe . . .”

  “Luke,” Nate said. He’d clicked through a few more pictures. “Look.”

  The camera angle was different. “Wait,” he said and zoomed in. “How about the head of a walking stick identical to the one Charles Grant used at Sheila’s funeral?”

  “Much better. You get started for Dutton. You’ll have a warrant when you get there.”

  “Thanks, Chloe.” Luke hung up and dialed Chase, filling him in.

  “Good work,” Chase said. “I’ll contact Germanio. They should be at the cemetery and hopefully Grant is there. Germanio can watch him while you get down there and search his house. Bobby could be hiding there. Oh, and Luke, I just hung up with that agent in North Carolina. Harry Grimes. He’s been trying your cell for over an hour.”

  “My cell doesn’t work in The Room.”

  “I told him that. He refused to tell me what he wanted, just that it was urgent.”

  “I’ll call him. Chase, have you heard from Talia and Susannah?”

  “Yes, she’s safe. Now go.”

  Luke turned to Nate. “Can you send these pics to Chloe for the warrant?”

  “Already done. I just e-mailed them to her. Go. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” A glance at his call log revealed six calls from Harry Grimes. Luke dialed him as he ran down the stairs toward his car. “Harry, it’s Luke Papadopoulos.”

  “I have news for you. It’s sensitive and I wasn’t sure who I could trust.”

  “What is it?”

  “I found video of Genie Cassidy’s abduction. Someone observed the whole thing. Someone driving a Crown Vic registered to an Atlanta cop. Name’s Paul Houston.”

  “A cop?” Luke didn’t have time for pause, although a major chunk of the puzzle had just fallen into place. “My God. Now it makes sense.”

  “It does?” Harry asked.

  “Yeah, it does.” Now he knew how Bobby was able to force Nurse Jennifer Ohman to keep Monica silent and the male nurse to try to kill Ryan Beardsley, and maybe even how she was able to force Leigh Smithson to aid her. Bobby was working with a cop. A cop would know about drug addictions and other secrets, and a dirty cop would use those to blackmail. “I’m running to an emergency. I need you to call my boss back. Tell him what you told me, fast. Thanks, Harry, we owe you one.”

  “Glad to help. Good luck.”

  Yeah, Luke thought as he reached his car. I need all the good luck I can get.

  Dutton, Monday, February 5, 1:00 p.m.

  Susannah sat in her father’s chair, frustrated. “I know he kept records, Talia, but they’re not anywhere I’ve looked. I’m going about this wrong. If he had records, he wouldn’t store them where they could be easily found.” She closed her eyes. “I remember hiding at the top of the stairs when I was little, knowing people were meeting with my father, in this office. Even then I knew there was something wrong going on.”

  “You were a child,” Talia said softly. “You couldn’t have done anything.”

  “I know that, just like I know I’m not responsible for Darcy’s death. But knowing is different from knowing.” Susannah kept her eyes closed. “I’d sit at the top of the stairs and listen, then they’d leave and my father—Arthur—would lock the front door.”

  “What did your father do after he locked the door?”

  “He’d go back into his office. Once I got brave and crept down the stairs to listen. There was a rustle, then a pop.” She looked over the room, her gaze falling on the thick Persian rug that had covered the carpet for as long as she could remember. She knew there was a floor safe in her parents’ bedroom, but that floor was hardwood and this one was carpeted. Still . . . She went to the Persian and pulled back the edge.

  “It didn’t rustle,” Talia said, still standing in the doorway. “Pull it harder.”

  Susannah did, making a whipping noise as the Persian rolled on itself. “That’s the sound.” She dropped to her knees and examined the carpet. “God, he was a wily piece of work. This carpet below is pieced.” Carefully she pulled it up. “Another floor safe.”

  “Can you open it?” Talia asked.

  “Probably, if I think hard enough. Arthur used to use birthdays of relatives for his combinations. He thought he was being clever and we never knew.” She tried her mother’s birthday, then Simon’s, then any others she could remember. Grandmothers, grandfathers, aunts and uncles. None worked.

  “Maybe he picked something different for this safe,” Talia said. “Not a birthday.”

  “Maybe, but he was a creature of habit. I guess I got one thing from him honestly.” Then she knew. “Honestly,” she murmured again, then twisted the dial and popped the door. “Daniel’s birthday. Daniel will get a kick out of that.” The judge used the birthday of the one man he couldn’t corrupt, but who tortured himself over the sins of his father.

  Arthur had thought Daniel weak. He thought the same about me. The judge was mistaken, she thought as she drew out several bound ledgers and journals. Bingo.

  Talia came to sit on the floor beside her. “He must have thirty years of records in here. Why not use a safe-deposit box?”

  “He didn’t trust banks. Marcy should be in this one.” Flipping pages, she found the entry. “My God. He wanted seventy-five thousand dollars from the Lintons. No wonder they couldn’t come up with the money.”

  “So what happened with Borenson?” Talia asked.

  “Hell.” She ran her finger down the page. “He says that the girl’s ‘handler’ stepped in and threatened Borenson and he ‘folded like a house of cards.’ ”

  “Handler?” Talia asked. “So she really was soliciting?”

  “Sounds like it.” Susannah read on. “Marcy was soliciting, but for more than sex. It says here that she’d pick rich men who liked young girls, seduce them, then threaten to tell their wives if they didn’t pay her. She’d give the money to her handler and he’d pay her a cut.” She met Talia’s eyes. “Bobby did that for years, too, in Atlanta. Chloe told Garth Davis that she’d found the transaction records.”

  “Another connection,” Talia murmured. “Does your father say who the handler
is?”

  Susannah read it, then read it again, then stared at the page, stunned. “He says Marcy’s handler was Charles Grant. That . . . that doesn’t make sense.”

  “It fits. Chase called me when we were driving from the Lintons’. Luke found one of Mansfield’s pictures from the bunker—a man with a walking stick, like Charles Grant’s.”

  Susannah’s eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because you were so pale I thought you’d pass out, and you got paler as we got closer to this place. I figured I’d let you deal with one stress at a time.”

  “You’re right, I guess. But Charles Grant?” She was still numb. “He was Daniel’s favorite teacher. He was everybody’s favorite teacher.”

  “He also may be a killer. What else does the journal say, Susannah?”

  Susannah kept reading, past stunned. “Little prick, trying to squeeze me. He might scare Carol with all his Asian voo-doo, but all his talk of occult and thíchs doesn’t scare me. Grant’s a fucking opportunist. He’ll use whatever it takes to get what he wants. He thought he could use Simon to get to me, but I took care of Simon’s sins. He thought he’d use Susannah to get to me. Like that was ever going to work. She’s . . .” Susannah faltered. “She’s nothing to me.”

  “I’m sorry, honey,” Talia whispered. “You can stop now.”

  “No. I need to know. But today . . . this . . . He’s turned Borenson against me and this will not stand. The next time I make a demand, the defendants will just whine to Borenson and he’ll let them off with a damn slap on the wrist. Borenson’s weak. I told him to just get rid of that upstart Legal-Aid idiot Alderman, but did he listen? Hell no. Before it was his own business when Alderman threatened him. Now, he’s cutting into mine. Dammit, this place costs money to keep. The bills are staggering. They will not cut off my income.”

  Dread was pooling. “He did it for money. For this house.” And he’d known. “He knew what happened to me.” With trembling hands she flipped pages until she got to the January when she’d woken up in a hidey-hole, bruised, bleeding, forever changed.