CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Present Day
IT WAS ONLY 9:00 a.m.
Fatigue engulfed Amanda’s body. Added confusion to an already convoluted case when all she wanted was a breakthrough. It didn’t have to be huge.
It didn’t have to be this.
“You’re sure those are the prints?” Robinson moved around the empty gurney inside Mercy Hospital’s cold storage. “You said Simone’s been dead for twenty-seven years.”
“Simone has been dead, but Mona Hicks has not.” Amanda followed him. Took in the sterile metal surroundings and the cold soaking into her skin. The rows of vaults, some labeled, some not. The cold had more to do with her early-morning discovery and less with the temperature inside the place. “Lab ran the prints twice. I sent Mark over with a latent print from the scene here to compare.”
There wasn’t a connection she could find. A reason Simone Archambault would’ve been inside that house. Inside this morgue. A reason she would leave her prints behind in a careless manner headed for discovery.
Amanda refused to believe she’d fallen into the case for any other reason than it was discovered in her jurisdiction. This wasn’t personal. She wouldn’t let it or her past cases dictate how she saw the world.
“Mona Hicks? Why does that sound familiar?” Robinson’s gaze hit the personnel around them, busy collecting evidence where none should be needed. Because their body from yesterday inside the Avon Avenue house should be inside locker forty-seven, autopsy report typed and ready. His body was missing, the gurney with no more trace than a print. Not even so much as a body hair.
“Dr. Michael Hicks’ wife. He is—was the Internal Affairs psychologist. He resigned yesterday because his wife’s health has been declining. No one’s heard from or seen him since.”
Robinson paused, his face not giving a hint of emotion away. “You got this at four this morning?”
She shrugged. “When inspiration strikes…”
“And eight cups of coffee.”
Amanda was working on number four. Been about to load up the twins and Paige and get them to their respective places for the day when they’d gotten the call. A hospital employee had been doing inventory and come across the empty container. “Turns out Simone Archambault never died, she went into WITSEC the day Charleen was born.”
Robinson shook his head. “If that were the case, Charleen would have also been placed into WITSEC.”
“Simone turned out evidence on the Archambault family business in the seventies. The Agents on the case procured all the paperwork for her with a rider that included her unborn child. The day it’s all set to go down, Simone disappears for about twenty-four hours. The Feds go on a manhunt, Simone being the only key witness.”
“Harvey Archambault? The FBI held him in the seventies for racketeering, money laundering, and murder?”
“That’s the one.”
Robinson removed his gloves and headed for the exit. “They had to be worried he’d gotten to her.”
Amanda followed. “Right. But she walks in the next morning as if nothing ever happened—as if that were the plan all along—sans unborn child.”
“Why?”
Amanda shrugged. “Something only she can answer, but it’s one I’m interested in. Was she protecting Charleen or was she just getting rid of a problem?”
Robinson stopped in the hallway. He stuck his tongue in his cheek. Leaned against the hospital railing. “Explain how an abortion classifies as protecting someone?”
“Maybe she didn’t want Charleen living that life. Maybe she hoped Charleen would survive and have a better chance for a normal life if she weren’t connected to Simone. Why else would you try to contact your daughter without actually contacting her?”
He took in a deep breath. “Maybe because she’s dying.”
“She didn’t look it.” But there had been layers of makeup. A brief encounter where Amanda hadn’t been looking for the signs of disease. Her focus had been elsewhere. On a more sinister nature.
“Maybe because she broke the law and hung our missing victim from the ceiling and she’s afraid of getting caught. She knows her daughter is a cop. Her friends are all cops. Archambault case all over again.”
Minus the mobsters.
A dark emotion gathered over his face. “Maybe you’re just hoping for a better ending for Charleen than the one you got with your mom.”
Maybe she was. Maybe she wanted to hope that Simone had a good reason for everything she’d done. That she wasn’t the woman behind this bizarre case, because she couldn’t handle the thought of good people dying and bad people surviving. “The other option is that she waltzed right through this hospital and stole our vic’s body. And nobody saw anything.”
“If that happened, she wasn’t alone. She might have been able to carry Jane Doe, but a full-grown man?” He shook his head. “A dead man. Nope. There’s no way. Even if she could’ve, it would’ve been a slow process and somebody would’ve seen it.”
“Unless she didn’t carry him. Maybe put him on a gurney and wheeled him out. Disguised herself.”
Robinson shifted. “In the seventies, anybody have any idea where she went? What she did in that twenty-four hour time frame?”
“Said she went home to take care of business.” The words had been far more colorful according to the Marshals.
His eyes narrowed. “Where, exactly, was home?”
Robinson wasn’t going to like the answer. She didn’t. Didn’t really understand it, but in the last twenty-four hours not much was making sense. Real life. Her dreams. This case. “The Avon Avenue house.”
“Where we found our vic?”
“When I requested history on the house, it came with a newspaper article about the couple living there at the time—they were renting the house from the sounds of it. They were quiet, but well-liked. Expecting their first child. The husband actually ended up saving a little boy and girl from a nearby house fire.”
Robinson shook his head. “And?”
“She lost her baby. They opted to have the child at home, but he was breach. He ended up getting wedged in her pelvic bone, suffocated, and died.” The truth of it slammed into Amanda. The agony of that type of trauma must have been unbearable. “She went into severe depression. A few months later she took her life.” Amanda held up her arm, her opposite index finger drawing a line down the center of her wrist. “Bled out in the living room in the exact spot our vic hung.”
He closed his eyes, his index finger and middle rubbing a pattern above his eyebrows.
“The day it all happened was the same day Simone disappeared, Robbie.”
His head snapped up. “What are you saying? That Simone went home, killed a woman and made it look like suicide before returning to the cops? One last hurrah before she started over?”
Amanda didn’t know what she was saying. She only knew things weren’t adding up. She moved closer to Robinson. “Jane Doe came in with an identical wound. Dr. Blake said she missed the artery by a millimeter.”
He watched her, confusion written all over his face. “That’s not something you walk away from without repercussions.”
“No.” It wasn’t. Which meant she was dead. Had to be.
“People don’t just disappear, A.J. There’s a connection we’re overlooking. You said Simone gave you a letter, you got it on you?”
She stepped back from him. “Yes, but I can’t open it.” She’d thought about it. Contemplated gloving up and reading the contents, but something had stopped her. Respect. Fear. Hope. She wasn’t sure. “It’s for Dexter to give to Charleen.”
“Right now it’s evidence. I want to talk to Simone and I want the details in that letter before I do it.”
Amanda had planned to hunt the other woman down the moment she’d gotten the WITSEC details. They’d ended up here instead. “It could be benign. A simple letter explaining her actions.”
“Why involve Dexter, then? It’s not like he and Charleen hang out.”
“His name is listed for the In Honor of the Fallen ceremony. Maybe Simone saw it. She’s playing the halftime show. Maybe she knew contact with Charleen would mean she’d put her in danger with the old crew.” Amanda continued down the hallway. “Let me give it to them—they can even wear gloves to read it—then it’s all yours.”
___
The sand was lodged in her eyes.
The grit slid across Charleen’s retinas and made the slightest movement the equivalent of a million dull knives nicking over the fragile tissue. Her head throbbed with an intensity that equated to the morning after an all-night party with cheap booze and questionable company.
The nausea swirling in her stomach had nothing to do with over-imbibing, a man, or loud music.
If she opened her eyes…
Twenty steps to the bathroom. She might make it.
The soft hum of voices—one masculine, the other feminine—both slightly familiar, filtered to her. She strained for a snippet of understandable conversation, but couldn’t hear much past the drumbeat in her ears. A rough fabric pressed into the side of her face. Light poured in from somewhere to her right. The squeak of the loose ceiling fan she’d been meaning to fix at Knight House fought for precedence.
The living room.
How had she gotten here? Last thing she remembered was…
They’d been inside Amanda’s house. Instead of moving from one time to another with a bit of room for the change to settle in, she had a blank spot.
Like all the other blank spots. Where was Dexter?
She sat up. A blanket fell to her waist. The room spun in a jerky circle, the familiar surroundings of the house a carnival ride she needed to get off. She gripped the edge of the couch in an effort to make it stop.
Something poked her hand, the business card from last night within her grip. There were words across the back.
Call me when you wake up. Dexter.
Huh. No we need to talk. Or you need to explain. Just a simple sentence, written in neat, unhurried lettering. Words that could mean all of those things. Or nothing.
She licked her lips. They were dry and rough. She needed a toothbrush, a glass of water, and to bury her head somewhere dark for the next twelve hours.
“Mom, it’s dinner.” Finn stood at the top of the stairs. Mave Knight faced him, her back to Charleen, the black slacks and flowing shirt complimenting her hair. The bangle bracelets on her left hand glinted off the sunlight streaming through the skylights above them, her hand on the railing.
Charleen had never seen the older woman not put together. Meanwhile she probably had the imprint of the couch on her cheek, bedhead, and was in severe need of a shower.
Finn crossed his arms. “Family dinner, Mom. Not some speed dating event.”
Charleen squeezed her eyes shut. Twenty steps to the lower-level bathroom. She could make it. Shut herself inside to hide until everyone left.
No. Better yet, she’d dash out the sliding door leading to the backyard and make it to her house. Maybe spill her guts in the privacy of a bush on her own property. Take a couple of hours to die in peace before she faced the world.
If she needed to do that at all. No job—not after yesterday. There wasn’t any way Dexter would give her the glowing review Dr. Hicks had been unable to.
Nope. No job. No Knight House kids to raise. Nowhere she needed to be.
If there were anything Dexter wanted to discuss, it was that. His nature would dictate he do it in person. Try to make the best out of a bad situation. Counsel her even.
“I’m inviting over a few family friends.” Mave’s voice was kind but held a bit of a challenge as the soft tap of shoes echoed closer.
Charleen needed to move. Run. Hide. Her body wouldn’t comply.
“I want Dexter to move back, too. All but planning his wedding isn’t going to make it happen. You could parade a long line of naked women in front of him and he wouldn’t change his mind.”
The image of scantily-clad women and Dexter didn’t mesh well in her brain. It didn’t mesh well in real life, either.
“Finn. Goodness. Where did you learn to talk like that?” Mave’s voice was right beside Charleen. A hand found her shoulder and squeezed. “I apologize for my son’s crude description.”
Charleen’s eyes snapped open.
Finn’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, the color similar to Dexter’s, only not as deep. Not as alluring. They shared the same brown hair color, but Finn wore his a little longer. He ran his hand through the strands, his gaze moving back to Mave. “Lay off the house hunting and matchmaking. Please? If you want to invite other people to dinner, fine.”
So Dexter wasn’t exaggerating.
Mave shot her son a look, her arms crossing over her chest. “I didn’t ask your permission, Finn.”
Seriousness floated over Finn’s features. “I’m bringing my own dinner date.”
That was Charleen’s cue. She didn’t need to get in the middle of this family business. She stood. Every muscle in her body protested the motion.
One of Mave’s perfectly manicured brows arched, her tone matching the motion. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” Finn’s eyes trapped Charleen. “What do you say, Charleen?”
“No.” The word tumbled out on the cusp of shock before she could stop it.
Mave’s delighted face swung toward Charleen, a sparkle in her eyes and a smile on her lips as if Charleen had never spoken. As if she’d agreed with wholehearted enthusiasm.
Finn laughed, the sound light and free as if he’d given the world’s best one-liner. “Dexter asked me to keep an eye on you. Something about you not feeling very well. Since I have no idea when he’ll be back, I figure that includes dinner.”
“Oh, honey.” Mave moved closer and laid the back of her hand against Charleen’s forehead. Her eyes held genuine worry. The kind that couldn’t be faked or learned. Just resided soul deep—a love for everybody that emanated like light and warmth.
Charleen held still. Resisted the urge to move away.
“Can I get you anything? I could make some tea with honey and lemon.”
She was going to kill Finn. Kill both Finn and Dexter. What was he thinking? Asking his brother to keep an eye on her? Anyone to keep an eye on her for that matter. “Thank you, but that’s—”
“Finn’s right. Dinner is absolutely included. We have to get you feeling better so you can join us. You relax.” Mave moved around the couch. Fluffed a few throw pillows as if preparing a place for Charleen to rest. “You’re always helping Juliana around here. She thinks the world of you. I’d love to have the opportunity to get to know you a little better.”
“I, uh, I…” Charleen’s stomach swirled as she backed up a step. There was nothing to get to know more of. She wasn’t divulging the limited background she had. Wasn’t sitting on this couch and snuggling into anything they were offering.
They both watched her with expectant expressions. What would Amanda say in this situation? She’d put the other woman at ease. Have her begging out of the palm of her hand even with the rejection. Even Dexter would have some logical excuse as to why this was all a bad idea. “I’d—”
The buzz of her phone filled the room. Her heart shot toward the ceiling. Amanda’s number flashed across the display. Charleen grabbed it from the coffee table. “I’ve got to take this. Sorry.” Then she pressed it to her ear as she moved toward the sliding door and out into the backyard. Every step sent a flare of pain through her body. “You have the best and worst timing.” Her voice came out in a quiet hiss that showcased every ounce of the panic racing through her body.
She had to reign it in. Harness it and use it. Or stow it.
You hold it all in.
“Good morning to you, too.” Amanda’s words were overshadowed by the jostle of something on her end of the phone. “Why best and worst?”
Charleen blew out a breath as she picked her way across the Knight House yard and to her back gate. “Dinner invitation.”
“So the best part is dinner and the worst part is…”
The company. Dexter’s family wouldn’t let her join them and stay in the shadows. They’d expect reciprocal conversation. Laughter. Long stories about how she grew up and why she was a cop. Those tales were short, drab. In the past. The answers not typical. Right now the picture they had was minuscule and colored with rose glasses. That’s where it ended. “I was trying to channel my inner you. You know, like, hey, I’d totally love to—which is a lie—but I can’t because I have to wash my hair for awesomeness tomorrow.”
“I still love the sharing, but don’t ever use that excuse. It’s awful, Charleen.” The sound of genuine laughter floated over the line. “Can I inquire as to whom dinner is with?”
Still? Charleen froze near the climbing bush she’d propagated a few years ago along the fence line, her heart in her ears. That was a conversation they’d had last night. In a moment that shouldn’t exist for Amanda. In fact, shouldn’t Amanda be angry with her? “Nobody. I’m not going. Do you need something?”
This wasn’t a big deal. She needed to get inside her house and think this all through. Not panic out in the open where anyone passing by could see it.
“Sharing time over. Got it.” There was a lengthy pause. “I’d wear heels and that black number you have with the gold accent belt. I saw it in your closet the other day. Leave your hair down. A little bit of makeup.”
The dress had been a purchase years ago. Something she’d shoved in the back of her closet and never worn. The swirl resumed in her gut as she walked through her back door. She gripped the doorknob a second. Swallowed back bile. “Okay. Great. Can I call you later?”
“I wanted to talk to you about that information you were looking for.”
The USB stick. Charleen patted both of her pockets. Came up empty-handed. How did she have the business card, but not the USB? “I’ll drop by the precinct. Gotta go.”
“Wait. Task force. You in or out, Davis?”
“What are you talking about?” She headed for the bathroom. Needed to hide out for a while. Gain some new perspective. Disappear from the forefront of everyone’s mind. She flicked on the light. Red letters stared back at her.
Revival.
On the walls. The mirror. Across the matching towel set she’d picked out on one of those shopping trips with Amanda and had a good bit of buyer’s remorse over. The fuzzy robe Eileen had given her one Christmas.
A sparkle caught her eye near the edge of the sink. A ring sat on the marble surface. A diamond connected to two silver rings that had what looked like puzzle notches on them, the space between them hollow.
Of its own volition, her hand reached out. She froze inches above the piece of jewelry.
She had to get out. Disappear. Hide.
REVIVAL.
“The body is missing. Just like Jane Doe.” Amanda’s voice filtered to Charleen as the device slipped from her fingers. As her insides shot from her stomach.