The Other Daughter Page 11

  “Twenty-one feet's too easy,” he grumbled. “Average distance for a law enforcement conflict, my ass. You ought to be prepared for anything.”

  David shrugged, tearing down the paper and clipping up fresh targets. “So what did you learn, Chenney? What made Harper Stokes and Jamie O'Donnell seem so interesting?”

  “Hey, something's up,” the rookie stated immediately. “I followed Harper and Jamie O'Donnell to some ritzy golf course. With a bit of encouragement, management let me hang out at the bar, where I could hear everything O'Donnell and Harper were saying over their lemonades. Harper, he downs an entire glass without saying a word. Then he simply turns to O'Donnell and out of the blue states, ‘I got a note.'”

  “A note?”

  “Yeah, he told O'Donnell he found it on his car this morning. It said, ‘You get what you deserve.' He looked O'Donnell right in the eye, rather intense like, and asked him what he thought it might be about.

  “O'Donnell looked at him for a minute, also real quiet, like they were having some kind of subtle pissing war, then said, ‘Annie's been getting phone calls.'”

  “‘Annie's been getting phone calls'?”

  “Yeah. He said someone's been calling this Annie person and hanging up. She assumed it was some prankster. But you could tell they weren't so sure. Then Harper said, ‘Larry Digger's in town.' O'Donnell seemed a little surprised. He shrugged. And Harper said, ‘Josh gave me a call. Apparently Digger contacted him with a few questions about Melanie. Why do you think that is?' O'Donnell just shrugged. He said, ‘Who knows why Digger does anything? Maybe the whiskey dried up in Texas.'

  “Harper grunted. You could tell he didn't buy it. But he didn't say anything more and neither did O'Donnell. A few minutes later they started playing golf, but I'll tell you, something wasn't right. They were tense and pretty quiet the whole nine holes. And they played fierce, you know what I mean? This wasn't two guys out having a leisurely Sunday tee time. They went after each other as if out for blood. Really weird relationship there. I don't think they're going to donate kidneys to each other anytime soon. Do you think this has something to do with the scene in Miss Stokes's room this afternoon?”

  David looked at the rookie incredulously. “Yeah. I think it does.”

  “I knew it.” Chenney beamed. “So it's not such a bad idea that I left Sheffield, huh? I learned something in the end. I did.” He faltered. “So what did I learn, Riggs? What the hell is going on?”

  “Ain't that the question,” David muttered. He sent the targets back fifty feet, donned his earplugs and goggles, and started firing. After a moment Chenney joined him.

  Spent shells gathered on the shooting bench and bounced on the floor. Nine-millimeters spit a little fire from the side vents, making it hot, making it loud. Chenney went after his target like hell on wheels. David was slow and rhythmic, performing a motion he'd done so many thousands of times, it was as natural to him as breathing.

  Harper and Jamie O'Donnell. And Annie? Ann Margaret, most likely. Ann Margaret getting phone calls, though Melanie swears she has no real ties to the family. So what's the thread through all of this? What the hell is going on?

  It came to him as he cleared the last shot. He ejected his clip, opened the chamber, and set his gun down with the barrel still pointed along the shooters alley. As he drew off his plastic goggles, Chenney retrieved the targets.

  At fifty feet David's cluster had expanded slightly within the bull's-eye. Chenney's was getting ragged, his last few shots dropping down due to his haste. While Chenney scowled, David calmly filled him in on the events from last night, starting with Larry Digger and the reporter's allegation that Melanie Stokes was the daughter of Russell Lee Holmes.

  “That's nuts,” Chenney declared at the end. “No parents are going to knowingly adopt the kid of a murderer. And even if they did, there's no motive for them to alert someone to that fact now. You know what I think it is?”

  “I'm almost afraid to ask.”

  “A smear campaign!”

  “A smear campaign?”

  “Yeah, against Harper Stokes. Think about it. First we get an anonymous tip that Harper is committing healthcare fraud, allegedly inserting pacemakers into healthy people. So far we haven't found evidence of anything, so who knows? Then Larry Digger gets a call, allegedly from the Stokes house, that Harper's daughter is the child of a murderer. Harper Stokes has a bit of an arrogance rep and he's successful. Maybe some underling is out to get him, or a rival cardiac surgeon. They're striking Harper where it would hurt most—his reputation.”

  “I don't think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because of Harper's reaction to the note. He didn't just dismiss it the way you would if it was some random thing you found on your windshield. Instead, he asks O'Donnell about it, and O'Donnell doesn't have anything to do with Harper as a surgeon. Then Harper's next words are that Larry Digger is in town—Harper himself is connecting the note to some petty journalist he knew twenty-five years ago. And how does O'Donnell react to all that? He comments that Annie is getting phone calls.”

  “Who is Annie?”

  “Ann Margaret, I believe. Melanie's boss at the Dedham Red Cross Donor Center.”

  “What does she have to do with all this?”

  “She's from Texas.”

  “Texas?”

  “It's the common denominator,” David said patiently. “All these people are from Texas, and we know what happened in Texas.”

  “We do?”

  “Meagan Stokes, Chenney, four-year-old Meagan Stokes. That's what Harper Stokes and Jamie O'Donnell were talking about. Harper's first response: Larry Digger is in town . . . asking about Melanie. And O'Donnell trying to dismiss Digger but obviously not completely convinced himself as to what Digger is up to. Well, Larry Digger is in town looking for dirt about what happened twenty-five years ago. No matter which way you spin it, we come back to the homicide of a four-year-old girl.”

  “But that's a closed case. They fried the guy. End of story.”

  “So you'd think. But here's a news flash. I pulled up some information on Russell Lee Holmes before I came, and you know what? Good old Russell Lee was never convicted of murdering Meagan Stokes.”

  “Huh?” Chenney was confused.

  “Russell Lee was convicted of killing six children, but Meagan wasn't one of them. The police didn't have enough physical evidence to make the case. It was only later that he admitted to Meagan's killing, a confession he made to Huntsville beat reporter Larry Digger.”

  “Shit. You don't think . . .”

  “I don't know what to think yet. But I got a lot of questions about what happened to Meagan Stokes. And I have a lot of questions about exactly who is sending these little messages, and what it is the sender thinks everyone deserves.”

  “We're beyond healthcare fraud, aren't we?” Chenney pressed. “Meagan's toy, the scrap of fabric, the notes that these people need to get what they deserve. We're looking at homicide, aren't we? A twenty-five-year-old homicide.” Chenney didn't sound glum about this development but excited.

  “Yeah,” David muttered with less enthusiasm. “Maybe.”

  He reloaded his gun, his mind still preoccupied. He got ready to shoot, and he said quietly, “Did you notice anything weird about the scrap of blue fabric in Melanie's room, Chenney?”

  “Not really. It was old and bloodstained. Probably twenty-five years old. The lab will sort it out.”

  “The fabric probably is old,” David informed him. “But that blood was not. As a matter of fact, I'd say the blood was about eight hours old.”

  “Huh? That doesn't make any sense.”

  David turned toward him, the hard lines of his face even harsher beneath the fluorescent lights. “You ever play games, Chenney?”

  “Yeah, baseball, basketball, football.”

  “No, strategy games. Chess, bridge, hell, D&D.”

  “Well, no.” The rookie looked bewildered. “What does that have t
o do with anything?”

  David turned back to the targets. “We are in a game now, Chenney. The anonymous tipster, he dragged us in for some purpose only he knows about. Then he dragged Larry Digger in the same way. And now here we all are, players on the board, while he tosses the dice. Sends notes to some people, an altar to someone else, phones still others.”

  “But why?”

  “I don't know yet. Off the top of my head, I'd say something more happened twenty-five years ago. Something that affected a key group of people, something they've all done a great job of hiding. But this tipster, he's upset now, he's tired of the quiet. He wants everyone finally to get what they deserve. And he seems willing to go to great lengths to make sure it happens.”

  Chenney pondered this in silence. “Are we talking some kind of nut?”

  “I don't know.”

  “The altar, that seems to be the work of a nut.”

  “Maybe. But why would a nut call the FBI? What would a fruitcake want with the Bureau?”

  “A job,” Chenney said with a ghost of a smile. But then he sobered up again. “Yeah, I don't like the call to the Bureau. The crazy ones want vengeance, not justice. You think this tipster really is telling the truth? That Harper Stokes is committing fraud, and he and his wife knowingly adopted the daughter of a serial killer?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Riggs, what the hell are we supposed to do?”

  David donned his ear protection again, then the goggles. “First thing tomorrow, pull all the files on William Sheffield, going back to Texas. Then do the same with Ann Margaret and Jamie O'Donnell. I want to know exactly how each person got involved with the Stokeses. I want to know exactly how or if they met Meagan Stokes and if they were questioned by the Houston police twenty-five years ago. I want to see financials going back as far as your little heart can imagine. You cover the friends and I'll do the same with the family. We shake the tree hard enough, something will fall out.

  “And then we move on it.” David finally smiled, but it was savage and grim. “I fucking hate games.”

  He picked up his gun. Adopted the target pistol stance, sighted the red rings twenty-five yards away. His hand shook slightly; the 9mm was heavier than the .22 target pistol that earned him the NRA ranking of distinguished expert back in the days when everything he touched had turned to gold. Back in the days when there had been nothing young, virile David Riggs couldn't do.

  He thought of Melanie Stokes again, the way she'd touched his hand.

  He thought of Chenney, So I heard from Margie that your brother was this great pitcher . . .

  He thought of the pain in his back that was slowly and steadily getting worse. He thought of the illness that had no cure.

  He fired off three shots, fast and smooth. Chenney drew in the target. The single hole through the bull's-eye was nearly perfect.

  “Shit!” Chenney said in awe.

  David just turned away and began picking up the spent shells.

  TEN

  E LEVEN P.M. While David Riggs picked up spent shells in the shooting range, Melanie roamed the three stories of her home, looking for anything that might give her peace of mind. She'd opened all the windows on the third story and turned on a fan to air out the cloying scent of gardenias. She'd cleaned her room, hanging up clothes, tending her plants, straightening her drawers. She'd showered, letting the water pummel the tight muscles of her neck.

  By the time she emerged from the bathroom, it was easy to believe the afternoon had never happened. The altar had been a figment of her imagination. The images in her head merely a particularly bad dream.

  She was in her home. She was the beloved daughter of Patricia and Harper Stokes. Nothing could touch her.

  Melanie sat on the edge of her bed and had a good cry.

  She wasn't prone to sobbing. She hadn't cried when she'd ended her engagement with William. Tears embarrassed her, made her feel weak, and she didn't like that. She was strong, she was capable, she was in control of her life.

  But tonight she cried hard. It finally dissolved the horrible knot in the pit of her stomach and eased the ache in her chest. It cleared her mind, and that allowed her to consider the afternoon objectively for the first time.

  She discovered that she was frightened and rattled after all. She wasn't afraid of the altar or the person prone to such petty acts. She was frightened, however, of the consequences. What if she truly was the daughter of Russell Lee Holmes? If her father had dismissed a birth son for his sexual preferences, what in the world would he do to an adopted daughter who turned out to be the child of a killer?

  She was not so strong and noble after all, Melanie decided. She wasn't keeping Digger's allegations from her parents to protect them. She was keeping them from her parents to protect herself. Because she had no intention of doing anything that might alienate her family. Because even at the age of twenty-nine, abandonment issues were a bitch.

  Melanie finally trudged downstairs, entering the sterile world of the stainless steel kitchen, and brewed herself a cup of chamomile tea. She added a bit of honey, a squeeze of lemon, then retreated to the dining room. The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed once to signal half past the hour.

  Eleven-thirty P.M. Her mother should have been home hours ago. Her father too. David was right. Her family was fractured, her father disappearing more and more, her mother battling the gin, and her brother AWOL. Whom was she trying to kid? The Stokeses were a mess.

  She thought to hell with it all, and headed for her father's study. The books were there. She needed to catalogue them. She should've done it hours before. She was being lazy and remiss. Now it was time to focus, time to get to work.

  She pulled out a piece of paper from her father's desk and got busy. One book down, a hundred more to go. She got up, headed into the foyer, and checked the alarm. It was set and tested active.

  She returned to the study, made it through five more books, then had to check the windows. The alarm system would tell her if any zones were trespassed, of course. But she had to make the inspection anyway before she could convince herself to return to the study.

  She finished her chamomile tea and settled into work mode. Title, author, publisher, date of copyright. Number, catalogue, move on. Work was important, and she was good at her job.

  Larry Digger. Why approach her now? What did he really want from her? A story of the year or a quick buck?

  The altar in her room. Who would do such a thing? What message was being sent? That she wasn't Meagan Stokes? That she couldn't replace her parents' first child? She knew that well enough herself, thank you very much.

  David Reese. Waiter, former cop. Fascinating hands. She'd noticed them earlier. Long, deft fingers. Broad, calloused palms. Hands you could depend on. A face, however, that needed to learn how to smile.

  “What are you going to do, Mel?” she murmured to herself in the empty house. “What are you going to do?”

  She didn't know. When she'd first inhaled that scent of gardenias and the images had exploded in her mind, they had seemed so real, so genuine, that a part of her had thought, this is it, I am Russell Lee Holmes's child. But in the aftermath she found it easier to retreat behind doubts. There could be another explanation. Maybe she just had weird associations with gardenias. Maybe she was simply too susceptible to Larry Digger's innuendo.

  But the altar in her room, with Meagan's toy, a bloody scrap of old fabric, and forty-four gardenia-scented candles arranged to spell a dead child's name . . .

  Melanie didn't have an explanation for it. According to her brother, Meagan's toy should not still exist. According to her own desires, she should not be able to remember a shack inhabited by a murdered child. According to her world, a trespasser should not wait in the bedroom across the hall from hers late at night, simply to mess with her mind.

  But the altar existed. It was real. Someone was trying to send a message about something, and she had to take that seriously. She should ask questions of L
arry Digger, she supposed. Do research on her own. See what the police found out. Maybe someone was just angry with her and her parents and trying to shake things up. She would have to get to the bottom of it, if not for her family's sake, then for her own.

  The house security system sounded a warning chime. Melanie stilled, then heard the telltale beep of someone entering the entry code into the front alarm box. Another beep as the alarm was rearmed. Seconds later footsteps sounded down the hall, then her mother poked her head into the study.

  Patricia wore a long, black wraparound coat and a pillbox hat. The makeup was smudged around her eyes, and she looked as if she'd had a very long day. Generally she returned from her AA meetings looking flushed and revitalized, armed with her twelve steps and ready to take on the world. Not tonight.

  She stepped into the room with her fingers nervously fiddling with the top button of her wrap and her gaze studiously avoiding her daughter's.

  “Hey,” Melanie said at last. “You're home late.”

  “Hi, sweetheart.” Her mother smiled belatedly, struggled harder with the top button of her coat, and finally got it undone. She draped the wrap over a pile of books by the door, plopped her hat on top of it, then finally crossed to Melanie for a brief kiss on the cheek. Her lips felt cool. Melanie caught the scent of stale cigarette smoke mingled with Chanel No. 5, and stiffened.

  Her mother smelled as if she'd been in a bar.

  Automatically, helplessly, she started searching for signs. The smell of mouthwash used to cover gin and tonic. A slight swaying. Overbright eyes, anxious chatter.

  Her mother's hands were shaking, her expression tremulous. Other than that, Melanie couldn't be sure. It could be just one of those days for her mother, or it could be worse. In the past six months it had become so hard to tell.

  Her mother pulled back, seeming to inspect the piles of books.