With Malice

2

Grant watched the water drip from his face into the sink. The bitter taste was still strong in his mouth, despite two rinses of mouthwash. The face he saw in the mirror had neither the energy of youth nor the wisdom of age. It was pale, drawn, eyes red-rimmed.

He drew a deep breath. He had to do something.

What would he tell the girls? They’d called Abby last night, before bed, just to say hi, they’d said. He couldn’t remember a night when they’d been away from Abby and hadn’t called her. It was as much a part of their bedtime ritual as hugs and brushing their teeth and him tucking them in. What would he tell them?

He had to get back to Tampa. That much was certain. Call his parents. That was the next step. Tell them what had happened and ask them to take the girls. One thing at a time, he told himself. One thing at a time.

His father’s voice was thick with sleep.

“Dad,” he began, and stopped. Saying that one word broke the last wall of reserve. Sobs tore from his chest.

“Son? What’s wrong?”

“Abby…Abby.”

His father knew. His father had always known. “Oh, son. Oh.”

In the background, Grant heard his mother stirring, asking what was wrong. “Dad, can I bring the girls home?”

The answer was immediate and reassuring. “Come home, son. Bring the girls. Your mother and I will start getting ready now.”

“I loved her,” Grant said, his voice breaking.

“We all did, Grant. Bring the girls. We’ll be ready.”

Jerry Connally shook his head. “I honestly don’t know, Detective. I mean, I know it’s the wrong thing to do, but I looked through the house first, to see if he— I’m guessing he’s a man—was still here. I could tell she was dead, but I checked anyway.”

“Before or after you checked the house?” Karen asked.

“I think before. I’m not sure.” He paused. “It’s funny. I’ve seen in a hundred TV shows where someone finds a dead body and panics and does something stupid. I always thought it was a bad plot device. And I guess I went and did the same damn thing.”

“So you approached the body?”

“Yes. I tried to find a pulse.” He looked down at his hand and shuddered. He met her eyes. “You check the pulse in the neck. That’s where it’s strongest. Easiest to find. I…”

Karen watched his ashen features. It wasn’t hard to see what had happened. Looking at a horrific wound was bad enough. Touching it would turn even the strongest of stomachs. She merely nodded and let him talk.

He seemed to study the floor for a moment. “I guess I checked her and then the house. Those footprints would be mine. Some of them, anyway. Maybe some of his, too. I just don’t know, Detective. I wish I did.”

He was a man transformed, Karen thought. Either he was a hell of an actor or the scene really had horrified him. Neither would prove his guilt or innocence. But the emotions rang true.

“You checked the house and then called?”

She saw the pause flicker over his face. Something he was keeping back. Something he wasn’t sure he wanted to say. “I think I tried to call Senator Lawrence first. I don’t know what time that was, but my cell phone records would show it.”

“You called the senator before you called us?”

He threw up a hand, a gust of breath escaping him. Even to Karen’s alert gaze, there was no question that this was a man in distress.

“I may have. Detective, I’m not real clear on the order of events. I remember hardly being able to comprehend what I saw. I remember checking the house. I remember checking Abby to see if she was still alive. And when I knew she was dead… All I could think of was Grant and his children. They love that woman. They’ve loved her all their lives. And when I knew she was dead…well, it’s possible I thought of telling him first.”

His gaze suddenly fixed on her, intense with emotion. “What difference does it make, Detective? The woman was dead. Abby was dead.”

Karen refused to give him even a moment to collect himself. Instead she pressed him. “It made a difference in how fresh the crime scene was. We might have found the killer in the vicinity.”

He shook his head, his eyes growing hollow. “Like I was even thinking of that. A woman I’d known for years was dead, brutally killed. And people I love were going to be torn up by it. Do you think I was even thinking about what you might need?”

Then he turned and walked away, making it clear he was done with her.

Karen paused, thinking, then decided to let him go. There were questions yet to be asked, but something about Jerry Connally… Some instinct told her he wasn’t the killer. She pushed away the niggle at the back of her brain that insisted Connally was withholding something and went back into the house. Unlike many cops, she had never believed that the most obvious suspect was the likeliest one in a case like this. She wasn’t going to allow herself to get misled. She would find the killer, but she wasn’t going to close off any avenues by making assumptions.

Karen found Millie dusting a heavy glass ashtray. Millie glanced up. “From the floor by her feet. Looks to have prints. Probably the vic’s.” She turned it over. “There’s a bloody smear on the bottom, but that’s from the carpet fibers.”

“So okay,” Karen said. “She’s in her nightgown and a bathrobe. The ashtray doesn’t have bloody fingerprints. Only smears from the carpet. Sounds to me like she’s asleep or falling asleep, hears something, grabs an ashtray from her bedroom, comes down and surprises the killer.”

Millie nodded, her trained eyes sweeping the room. “That would fit, yeah.”

“So what was the killer doing when she came downstairs? Burglary? So far as Connally can tell, nothing’s missing.” Karen nodded toward a lacquered end table where a sectional serving dish held jelly beans and other candies. “That’s silver. There’s other stuff right here. Even if the perp panics after he kills her, why not grab stuff that’s right here in the room?”

“I’m a criminalist, Karen.” Millie shrugged. “Not a profiler. Don’t ask me to explain how criminals think. I just look at what they leave behind.”

“Your people photographed the spatter patterns?”

Millie nodded. “And logged the footprints and all the rest.”

Karen checked her watch. It was nearly five-thirty. “I’m going to go canvas the neighbors. Maybe somebody saw something.” She shook her head. “This case is going to suck.”

Millie smiled sadly. “They all do, Karen. They all do.”

Out on the street, though it was still dark and most people ought to be in their beds sound asleep, a crowd had begun to gather. It wasn’t a big crowd; after all, this was an upscale neighborhood where gawking at misfortune was probably a solecism.

But the ghouls had gathered nonetheless, a handful. All looking as if they had climbed out of their beds and dressed in a rush. Probably the nearest neighbors, and most likely concerned that their own families might be in danger. That was the rational explanation.

But something else stirred inside her, the memory of a Ray Bradbury short story, The Crowd. In the story, the same group of gawkers had appeared at every fatal traffic accident. And in the pre-dawn stillness, Karen could almost see that story taking place. The faces before her, concerned and questioning and peering as if to look through the darkness and the crime scene tape and even the walls of the Lawrence home, could have been the same faces she’d seen around dozens of homicide investigations before. The face of society’s collective guilt and shame and morbid fascination with the depths of evil.

She’d seen too many of these crowds. Crowds around a house where a drunken husband had finally beaten his wife into eternal silence. Crowds around a playground where a drug deal gone sour had ended in gunfire. Crowds around a bar where fists and bottles had flown in the wake of angry words. Always the crowds. Always the same faces. Always the same questions.

Karen shook her head to clear her thoughts. It was late and she was tired. This was no time to let herself get spooked. These weren’t phantasms. They were just people. Curious, worried people.

Sliding her hands into the pockets of her slacks, she ambled in their direction. The houses here were on large lots that were carefully landscaped to provide the illusion that the residents were alone in the universe. These people might or might not have been friends and acquaintances before, but right now they were drawn together by a tragedy.

“Hi,” she said as she reached them. They had gathered by the tape barricade, politely out of the way. “I’m Detective Sweeney.”

“What happened?” one of them asked her, a man who was probably in his midforties, with the well-coiffed, well-built look that came from a combination of money and the time to spend with a personal trainer.

“Who are you?” she asked him.

“Wes Marlin. I live across the street. And I want to know what happened.”

“I’m sure you do.” Karen gave him a polite smile and pulled out her pad and pen, scrawling his name. “Phone number?”

“Why? I didn’t see or hear anything. I’m just worried. I have a wife and kids, you know.”

“Yes, of course. I can get your phone number, you know.”

So he gave it to her, along with his address. Then she turned to the others. “Did anyone hear or see anything at all?”

Most of the heads shook negatively, almost in unison, as if the crowd had become one entity. Muted calls of “What happened?” rippled out, indistinguishable one from the next.

Then another man spoke. “I heard a car,” he said.

Immediately Karen’s gaze snapped to him. “Your name?”

“Art Wallace. I live next door.” He pointed over his shoulder to the right. “The Lawrences are like family to me. We’ve been friends for ten years, at least. Our kids play together. So could you please just tell me if Abby is okay?”

“Abby?”

“The nanny. Oh, hell, she’s not a nanny anymore, she’s part of the family. Grant took the girls to D.C. with him, so she’s the only one home. Is she all right?”

He was a good-looking man in his midforties, a little thin in the hair, and wearing an expensive pair of glasses, but he had the kindest face among all the plastic faces around him. “Do you know Abby well?”

“Of course! Like I said, she’s part of the family.”

“When did you hear a car?”

“Hell, I’m not really sure. I was asleep and woke up a bit. It had one of those noisy mufflers that some people like so much. I remember thinking that if the driver lived around here, I was going to have some words with him. Then I fell back to sleep until I heard all the commotion out here. What about Abby?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wallace.”

He looked at her; then his face seemed to crumble. “Oh, God,” he said, his vice tight. He turned away and walked off into the darkness.

Karen let him go for now. She looked at the others. “Did any of you hear a noisy muffler?”

She was answered by more shakes of the head. She could see the crowd wasn’t really attending her anymore, though. They were—it was—thinking about the fact that a neighbor had been murdered. Piece by piece, person by person, the crowd broke apart and melted into the dawn.

Grant eased Belle, his six-year-old daughter, into his father’s arms. Behind him stumbled his nine-year-old, Catherine Suzanne, carrying Belle’s teddy bear and her own secret vice, a fuzzy blanket from her babyhood. Both children were utterly exhausted, having been rousted out of their beds at three in the morning to catch a red-eye flight home.

Belle had finally fallen asleep fifteen minutes before landing, running out of the nervous energy of excitement at the strange situation. Cathy, older and a little wiser, seemed to sense something was wrong, but so far she hadn’t asked. And she hadn’t slept. But that was Cathy. She kept things inside, not exactly brooding, but more reflecting and waiting.

Bryce, Grant’s father, reached out with an arm and squeezed Grant’s shoulders before accepting the small burden of the sleeping Belle. “What have you said?” he asked Grant, his eyes filling in the unspoken, what have you told the girls?

“Nothing. Later. The girls need sleep, Dad.”

Bryce nodded, hugging Belle tightly to his chest. He smiled at Cathy. “How’s my pumpkin doing?”

“Fine, Grandpa.” The answer, tired as it sounded, carried Cathy’s usual reserve.

“Well, let’s get you home and snuggled into your comfy beds,” Bryce said heartily. “And later, Grandma’s planning pancakes.”

Melinda Lawrence drew her son aside as Bryce tucked the girls into the car. Her eyes were red-rimmed, too. Abby had been as much a fixture in their lives as she had in his, and they felt her loss every bit as deeply. He felt his face sag.

“Mom.”

She drew him into her arms. It was a familiar embrace, despite the media stories of his having grown up at the shadowy fringes of his parents’ glittery world. Yes, Abby had raised him. Yes, his parents had worked long, grueling hours, often on location, producing films. They’d wanted him to have the stability of attending the same school, living in the same house, replacing Lego castles with posters of sports figures and, eventually, his own high school trophies. Of having a home. So Abby had always been there.

But they’d been there, too, in their own ways, and as often as they could. As Grant had entered his teens, his parents had cut back to a movie every other year, telling the media they wanted more time to devote to each project, when in fact they simply wanted more time with their son. His mother’s embrace had never been uncomfortable, had never been unfamiliar. And now he found some tiny measure of solace in her arms.

“Abby’s learning angel songs,” his mother whispered in his ear.

“And teaching them how to make corn bread.”

“Yes, son. And teaching them how to make corn bread.”

She held him at arm’s length and studied his face. “You need sleep, too, Grant.”

He nodded sadly. “I know, Mom. But I also need to know what’s going on. Jerry’s holding down the fort, but I need to…I need to see.”

Her grip on his arm tightened a bit. “Jerry Connally can see for us. He’s a fine man. You come home and get some breakfast, at least.”

He started to speak, but she cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it. None of us is hungry. But you need food, son. And by God, you’re going to eat.”

The glint in her eye told him it was okay to smile, that he didn’t have to fall and keep falling forever. He struggled to make the corners of his mouth lift a bit.

“No, Mother. I’m going to the house first. I’m going to speak to the police first. Then I’ll come over and talk to the girls. In the meantime, make sure they don’t see or hear the news.”

She nodded, giving him the space to make his own decisions, which she still sometimes found hard to do.

He watched them drive away, then went back into the terminal, heading for the taxi stand.

Action was what he needed now, more than food, more than sleep. Even if action would save no one and nothing.

Karen Sweeney recognized him the minute he climbed out of the cab in front of the house. She almost sighed. She’d been about to leave the scene, to go home and grab a couple of hours of sleep. Now she had to do another interview and probably answer questions herself, questions for which she had no answers yet.

Grant Lawrence was sometimes referred to by the media as the next John Kennedy, and Lawrence really did have that magic. Karen, a lifelong Republican, somehow always found herself voting for Grant Lawrence, Democrat. He made sense. But more than making sense, he made the impossible seem possible, made the heart soar with hope that the world could be a better place. Like Kennedy, he never said it would be easy. He admitted to all the obstacles, then made you feel as if surmounting obstacles was the entire point.

She liked his attitude. And it didn’t hurt that he could give a younger Robert Redford a run for his money in the looks department. Dark hair dashed with gray, perfectly chiseled features, a determined jaw, and a stride that said, you can knock me around but you can’t knock me down.

And that bundle of talent, looks and potentially huge problems for her was walking her way right now, being passed through the cordon as if he were king. Nobody even asked him to wait.

This was Lawrence turf, even for the cops.

It struck her that all she thought she knew about him was public image, and that all her admiration for him wasn’t going to make her job one iota easier. She suddenly wished someone else had been called on this case.

One of the cops pointed her out to him. Otherwise she was sure he never would have noticed an Irish wren with colorless eyes and her dark hair drawn impatiently back. Karen Sweeney had always been one to blend and never one to stand out.

But he was looking at her, straight at her, with electric blue eyes, bluer than she ever would have guessed from seeing him on the news and in the paper. He was also thinner than she had thought, and while tall, not quite as tall as he looked on the tube. He looked…not quite as imposing, yet somehow more powerful. Weird. And she needed to focus her sleepy brain before this politician ran roughshod over her and got information she wasn’t supposed to give out. Before she forgot that she was the one who was supposed to be in control of the scene.