Once Trapped
And of course, everybody was delighted to hear about the new dog that had come into their lives.
We’re a family now, Riley thought. And it’s great to be home.
It was also going to be great to get back to work tomorrow.
After dessert, Blaine and Crystal went home, and April and Jilly went to the kitchen to feed Darby. Riley poured herself a drink and sat down in the living room.
She felt herself relaxing more and more. It really had been a crazy day, but now it was over.
Her phone rang, and she saw that the call was from Atlanta.
Riley felt a jolt. Could this be Morgan again? Who else would be calling from Atlanta?
She picked up the phone and heard a man’s voice. “Agent Paige? My name is Jared Ruhl, and I’m a police officer here in Atlanta. I got your number from the Quantico switchboard.”
“What can I do for you, Officer Ruhl?” Riley said.
In a tentative voice, Ruhl said, “Well, I’m not just sure, but … I guess you know that we arrested a woman for the murder of Andrew Farrell last night. It was his wife, Morgan. In fact, weren’t you the person who called in about it?”
Riley was feeling edgy now.
“I was,” she said.
“I also heard that Morgan Farrell called you right after the killing, before she called anybody else.”
“That’s right.”
A silence fell. Riley sensed that Ruhl was struggling with what he wanted to say.
Finally he said, “Agent Paige, what do you know about Morgan Farrell?”
Riley squinted with concern. She said, “Officer Ruhl, I’m not sure it’s proper for me to comment. I really don’t know anything about what happened, and it’s not an FBI case.”
“I understand that. I’m sorry, I guess I shouldn’t have called …”
His voice trailed off.
Then he added, “But Agent Paige, I don’t think Morgan Farrell did it. Murdered her husband, I mean. I’m kind of new to this job, and I know I’ve got a lot to learn … but I just don’t think she’s the type who could do that.”
Riley was startled at those words.
She certainly didn’t remember Morgan Farrell as being the “type” who might commit murder. But she had to be careful what she said to Ruhl. She wasn’t at all sure she ought to be having this conversation at all.
She asked Ruhl, “Has she confessed?”
“They tell me she has. And everybody believes her confession. My partner, the police chief, the DA—absolutely everybody. Except me. And I can’t help but wonder, do you …?”
He didn’t finish his question, but Riley knew what it was.
He wanted to know whether Riley believed Morgan to be capable of murder.
Slowly and cautiously, she said, “Officer Ruhl, I appreciate your concern. But it’s really not appropriate for me to speculate on any of this. I assume that it’s a local case, and unless the FBI is called in to help in the investigation, well … frankly, it’s none of my business.”
“Of course, my apologies,” said Ruhl politely. “I should have known better. Anyway, thanks for taking my call. I won’t bother you again.”
He ended the call, and Riley sat staring at the telephone, sipping from her drink.
The girls clattered past her, closely followed by the little dog. They were all on the way to the family room to play, and Darby was looking quite happy now.
Riley watched them go by, with a deep feeling of satisfaction. But then memories of Morgan Farrell began to intrude on her mind.
She and her partner, Bill Jeffreys, had gone to the Farrells’ mansion to interview Morgan’s husband regarding the death of his own son.
She remembered how Morgan had seemed almost too weak to stand, clinging to the banister of the huge staircase for support while her husband presided over her as if she were some sort of trophy.
She remembered the look of vacant terror in the woman’s eyes.
She also remembered what Andrew Farrell had said about her as soon as she was out of earshot …
“A rather famous model when I married her—perhaps you’ve seen her on magazine covers.”
And regarding how much younger Morgan had been than himself, he’d added …
“A stepmother should never be older than her husband’s oldest children. I’ve made sure of that with all my wives.”
Riley now felt the same chill she’d felt back then.
Morgan had obviously been nothing more than a costly trinket for Andrew Farrell to show off in public—not a human being at all.
Finally Riley remembered what had happened to Andrew Farrell’s wife before Morgan.
She had committed suicide.
When Riley had given Morgan her FBI card, she’d been worried that the woman might meet the same fate—or die under other sinister circumstances. The last thing she had imagined was that Morgan would kill her husband—or anybody else for that matter.
Riley began to feel a familiar tingle—the kind of tingle she got whenever her instincts told her that things were not what they seemed.
Normally, that tingle was a signal for her to probe the matter more deeply.
But now?
No, it’s really none of my business, she told herself.
Or was it?
While she was puzzling things over, her phone rang again. This time she saw that the call was from Bill. She’d texted him that everything was all right and she’d be home tonight.
“Hi, Riley,” he said when she answered. “Just checking in. So everything went all right in Phoenix?”
“Thanks for calling, Bill,” she replied. “Yes, the adoption is final now.”
“Everything was thoroughly uneventful, I hope,” Bill asked.
Riley couldn’t help but laugh.
“Not exactly,” she said. “In fact, far from it. There was, uh, some violence involved. And a dog.”
She heard Bill chuckle as well.
“Violence and a dog? I’m intrigued! Tell me more!”
“I will when we see each other,” Riley said. “It’ll be a better story if I can tell you face to face.”
“I’m looking forward to it. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow in Quantico, then.”
Riley fell silent for a moment as she felt on the brink of a strange decision.
She said to Bill, “I don’t think so. I think maybe I’ll take a couple more days off.”
“Well, you certainly deserve it. Congratulations again.”
They ended the call, and Riley headed upstairs to her room. She turned on her computer.
Then she booked a flight to Atlanta for tomorrow morning.
CHAPTER EIGHT
By early afternoon the next day, Riley was sitting in the office of Atlanta’s police chief, Elmo Stiles. The large, gruff man didn’t seem at all happy with what Riley had been telling him.
He finally growled, “Let me get this straight, Agent Paige. You’ve come here all the way from Quantico to privately interview Morgan Farrell, who we’re holding in custody for the murder of her husband. But we didn’t ask for the FBI’s help. In fact, the case is now open and shut. We’ve got a confession and everything. Morgan is guilty, and that’s pretty much that. So what’s your business here?”
Riley tried to project an air of confidence.
“I told you before,” she said. “I need to talk to her about a completely separate matter—a different case altogether.”
Stiles squinted skeptically and said, “A different case that you can’t tell me anything about.”
“That’s right,” Riley said.
It was a lie, of course. For the thousandth time since she’d flown out of DC this morning, she wondered just what the hell she thought she was doing. She was used to bending the rules, but she was seriously crossing a line by pretending to be here on official FBI business.
Just why had she ever thought this might be a good idea?
“What if I say no?” Stiles said.
Riley knew perfectly well that this was the chief’s prerogative, and if he did say no, she’d have to comply. But she didn’t want to say so. She had to gear herself up for some serious bluffing.
She said, “Chief Stiles, believe me, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t a matter of utmost importance and urgency. I’m just not at liberty to say what it is.”
Chief Stiles drummed his fingers on his desk for a few moments.
Then he said, “Your reputation precedes you, Agent Paige.”
Riley cringed a little inside.
That could be a good thing or a bad thing, she thought.
She was well-known and respected throughout the law enforcement profession for her keen instincts, her ability to get into a killer’s mind, and her knack for solving seemingly unsolvable cases.
She was also known for sometimes being a nuisance and a loose cannon, and local authorities who had to work with her often took a dislike to her.
She didn’t know which of those reputations Chief Stiles might be referring to.
She wished she could read his expression better, but he had one of those faces that probably never looked pleased about much of anything.
What Riley really dreaded at this moment was the possibility that Stiles might do the most logical thing—pick up the phone and call Quantico to confirm that she was here on FBI business. If he did, nobody there would cover for her. In fact, she’d wind up in a good bit of trouble.
Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, she thought.
Finally Chief Stiles stopped drumming his fingers and got up from his desk.
He grumbled, “Well, far be it from me to stand in the way of FBI business. Come on, I’ll take you to Morgan Farrell’s jail cell.”
Suppressing a sigh of relief, Riley got up and followed Stiles out of his office. As he led her through the bustling police station, Riley wondered whether any of the cops around her might happen to be Jared Ruhl, the officer who had called her last night. She wouldn’t recognize him if she saw him. But might he know who she was?
Riley hoped not, for his sake as much as for her own. She remembered telling him over the phone about Morgan Farrell’s death …
“Frankly, it’s none of my business.”
It had been exactly the right thing for her to say, and it would be best for Ruhl if he thought Riley was sticking by her decision. It could be a big problem for him if Chief Stiles found out that he’d been making queries outside the department.
As Stiles led her into the women’s part of the jail, Riley was nearly deafened by the noise. Prisoners were pounding on bars and loudly arguing with one another, and now they started yelling at Riley as she walked past their cells.
Finally Stiles ordered a guard to open the cell occupied by Morgan Farrell, and Riley walked inside. The woman was sitting on the bed staring at the floor, seemingly unaware that anyone had arrived.
Riley was shocked by her appearance. Morgan was, as Riley remembered, extremely thin and fragile-looking. She looked even more so now, clad in an orange jumpsuit that looked way too big for her.
She also appeared to be deeply exhausted. The last time Riley had seen her, she’d been fully made up and looking like the model she had been before marrying Andrew Farrell. Without makeup, she looked shockingly waiflike. Riley thought that somebody who didn’t know anything about her might take her for a homeless woman.
In a rather polite tone, Chief Stiles said to Morgan, “Ma’am, there’s a visitor here to see you. Special Agent Riley Paige of the FBI.”
Morgan looked up at Riley and stared at her, as if she wasn’t sure whether she might be dreaming.
Chief Stiles then turned to Riley and said, “Check in with me when you’re through.”
Stiles left the cell and told the guard to shut the door behind him. Riley glanced around to see what kind of surveillance the cell might have. She wasn’t surprised to see a camera. She hoped that there weren’t any audio devices as well. The last thing she wanted right now was for Stiles or anyone else to eavesdrop on her conversation with Morgan Farrell. But now that she was here, she had to take that chance.
As Riley sat down on the bed next to her, Morgan continued to squint at her in near disbelief.
In a tired voice, she said, “Agent Paige. I hadn’t expected you. It’s kind of you to come see me, but really, it wasn’t at all necessary.”
Riley said, “I just wanted to …”
Her voice trailed off as she found herself wondering …
What do I want exactly?
Did she really have any clear idea of just what she was doing here?
Finally Riley said, “Could you tell me what happened?”
Morgan sighed deeply.
“There’s not much to tell, is there? I killed my husband. I’m not sorry I did, believe me. But now that it’s done … well, I’d really like to go home now.”
Riley was shocked by her words. Didn’t the woman understand what a terrible situation she was in?
Didn’t she know that Georgia was a death penalty state?
Morgan seemed to be having trouble holding her head up. She shuddered at the sound of a woman’s shrill shouting in a nearby cell.
She said, “I thought I’d be able to get some sleep here in jail. But listen to all that racket! It goes on all the time, twenty-four hours a day.”
Riley studied the woman’s weary face.
She asked, “You’ve not gotten much sleep, have you? Maybe not for a long time?”
Morgan shook her head.
“It’s been two or three weeks now—even before I got here. Andrew got into one of his sadistic moods and decided not to leave me alone or let me sleep, night or day. It’s easy for him to do …”
She paused, apparently noticing her mistake, then said, “It was easy for him to do. He had some kind of trick metabolism that some high-powered men have. He could get by on three or four hours of sleep every day. And lately he’d been home a lot of the time. So he hounded me everywhere in the house, never giving me any privacy, coming into my bedroom at all hours, making me do … all kinds of things …”
Riley felt a little ill at the thought of what those unspoken “things” might be. She was sure that Andrew had sexually tormented Morgan.
Morgan shrugged her shoulders.
“I finally snapped, I guess,” she said. “And I killed him. From what I hear, I stabbed him a good twelve or thirteen times.”
“From what you hear?” asked Riley. “Don’t you remember?”
Morgan let out a quiet groan of despair.
“Do we have to get into what I remember and don’t remember? I’d been drinking and taking pills before it happened and it’s all a fog. The police asked me questions until I didn’t know which end was up. If you want to know the details, I’m sure they’ll let you read my confession.”
Riley felt an odd tingle at those words. She wasn’t yet sure just why.
“I really wish you’d tell me,” Riley said.
Morgan wrinkled her brow in thought for a moment.
Then she said, “I guess I made up my mind … that I had to do something. I waited until he went to his room that night. Even then, I wasn’t sure whether he was asleep. I knocked on his door lightly, and he didn’t answer. I opened the door and looked inside, and there he was in his bed, fast asleep.”
She seemed to be thinking harder.
“I guess I must have looked around for something to do it with—kill him, I mean. I guess I didn’t see anything. So I guess I went down the kitchen and I got that knife. Then I came back up and—well, I guess I went a little crazy stabbing him, because I wound up with blood everywhere, including all over me.”
Riley took note of how often she was saying those words …
“I guess.”
Then Morgan let out a sigh of annoyance.
“What a mess that was! I do hope the live-in help has cleaned it all up by now. I tried to do it myself, but of course I’m no good at that kind of thing under the best of circumstances.”
Then Morgan took a long, slow breath.
“And then I called you. And you called the police. Thanks for taking care of that for me.”
Then she smiled curiously at Riley and added, “And thanks again for coming by to see me. It was very sweet of you. I still don’t understand what this is all about, though.”
Riley was feeling more and more troubled by Morgan’s description of her own actions.
Something’s not right here, she thought.
Riley paused to think for a moment and then asked …
“Morgan, what kind of knife was it?”
Morgan wrinkled her brow.
“Just a knife, I guess,” she said. “I don’t know much about kitchen utensils. I think the police said it was a carving knife. It was long and sharp.”
Riley was feeling more and more uneasy about all the things that Morgan didn’t know or wasn’t sure of.
As for herself, Riley didn’t do much of her family’s cooking anymore, but she certainly knew everything that was in her kitchen and exactly where everything was. Everything was kept in its special place, especially since Gabriela had been in charge. Her own carving knife was kept in a wooden stand with other sharp knives.
Riley asked, “Where exactly did you find the knife?”
Morgan let out an uneasy laugh.
“Didn’t I just tell you? In the kitchen.”
“No, I mean where in the kitchen?”
Morgan’s eyes clouded over.
“Why are you asking me that?” she said in a soft, pleading voice.
“Can’t you tell me?” Riley asked with gentle insistence.
Morgan was starting to look distressed now.
“Why are you asking me these questions? Like I told you, it’s all in my confession. You can read it if you haven’t already. Really, Agent Paige, this isn’t kind of you. And I’d really like to know what you’re doing here. Somehow I don’t think it’s just out of kindness.”
Morgan’s voice shook with quiet anger. “I’ve already had to answer all kinds of questions—more than I can count. I don’t deserve any more of this, and I can’t say I like it.”
She drew herself upright and added, “I did what had to be done. Mimi, his wife before me, committed suicide, you know. It was all over the media. So did his son. All the rest of his wives—I’m not even sure how many they were—just waited around suffering until they got a few wrinkles and he decided they weren’t any good for showing off anymore, and then he got rid of them. What kind of a woman puts up with that? What kind of woman thinks she deserves it?”
Then with a low snarl she added …
“I’m not that kind of woman. And I think Andrew knows that now.”
Then her face clouded with confusion again.
“I don’t like this,” she whispered. “I think you’d better leave.”
“Morgan—”
“I said I want you to leave right now.”
“Who is your lawyer? Have you been examined by a psychiatrist?”
Morgan almost shouted, “I mean it. Go.”
Riley wished she could ask a lot more questions. But she could see there was no use in trying. She called for a guard, who let her out of the cell. Then she made her way back to Chief Stiles’s office and looked inside the open door.
Stiles looked up at her from his paperwork with a suspicious expression.
“Did you find out what you needed to know?” he asked Riley.
For a moment, Riley didn’t know what to say.
She wanted to keep open the possibility of talking to Morgan again.
She was tempted to say …
“No, and I’ll need to come back and talk to her some more.”
But that might trigger Stiles skepticism to a breaking point, and he might end up calling Quantico after all.
Instead she said …
“Thanks for your cooperation, sir. I’ll show myself out.”
As she headed out of the station, she recalled the strange conversation she’d just had with Morgan about the knife, and how defensive the woman had gotten about it …
“Why are you asking me these questions?”
Riley was sure of one thing. Morgan had no idea where the knife had been kept in the kitchen. And if she’d had to go to the trouble of finding it, she’d have been able to tell Riley where she’d found it.
She also remembered what Morgan had told her on the phone …
“The knife is lying right next to him.”
At that moment, Morgan surely hadn’t known where it had come from.
She’s not guilty, Riley realized as she climbed into her rented car.
She knew it in her gut, even if Morgan herself didn’t believe it.
And no one else was going to question her guilt. They were all happy to have the matter settled.
It was up to Riley to set things right.
CHAPTER NINE
As she took a sip of coffee, Riley wondered …
What do I do now?
Her head buzzing with questions, she’d driven to a fast food restaurant and ordered a hamburger and coffee. She had found a place to sit away from the other customers so she could think about her next move.
Riley was used to bending rules and working in strange circumstances. But this situation was new even to her. She was in uncharted territory.
She wished she could call Bill, her longtime partner. Or that she could talk things over with Jenn Roston, the young agent who’d also partnered with her on recent cases. But that would mean getting them involved in a situation that even she wasn’t supposed to be working on.
Was there anyone she could talk to locally?
I can’t very well ask Chief Stiles anything, Riley thought.
Of course there were a few people in other places that she sometimes turned to in unconventional situations. One was Mike Nevins, a forensic psychologist in DC who worked as an independent consultant on some FBI cases. Riley had asked Mike for help on many cases, including a few that she hadn’t exactly handled by the book. He’d also helped both her and Bill through bouts with PTSD. Mike had always been discreet, and he was also a good friend.
She flipped open her laptop, put in her earpieces, opened her video chat program, and called Mike’s office. Right away he appeared on her screen—a dapper, rather fussy-looking man wearing an expensive shirt with a vest.
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