Dead Certain Page 10

  “The same guy who’d been threatened by Lowell, the same guy Lowell thought was out to steal his girl . . .”

  “Yeah, right. Like a woman like that Crosby girl was gonna give the time of day to a punk like Archer Lowell.” McCabe looked disgusted. “He beat her up, you know? Broke a few of her ribs, broke a couple of her fingers. Messed up her face, too, I heard.”

  Sean held up a hand to stop him. “I read the reports.” He didn’t want to discuss Amanda’s beating at the hands of Archer Lowell. He’d seen the pictures, and they’d made him not only ill, but angry.

  “Other than the fact that this guy was threatened by Lowell over a year ago, what’s the connection?”

  “I don’t know that there is one. I just want to talk to him.” Sean wasn’t ready to share with anyone the possibility that Amanda may have drawn the attention of someone who appeared to be following in Lowell’s footsteps.

  “I’ll have him brought up.” McCabe grabbed the phone and gave the order to bring Archer Lowell to interview room twelve as soon as possible. “You remember the way?”

  The first thing that occurred to Sean when Archer Lowell shuffled into the room was that he looked way too young to be harbored here with so many hardened criminals. The second thing was that there appeared to be little or no life in his eyes.

  No sign of intelligent life, Sean amended.

  “Who are you?” Lowell asked as he sat down in the plastic chair.

  “Chief Mercer, Broeder police.”

  “Yeah, I heard they fired Anderson’s ass.” Lowell nodded. “What do you want?”

  “I want to talk about the crime that got you in here.”

  “Wasn’t no crime,” he muttered.

  “It wasn’t?”

  “No, man. Me and Amanda . . . she and I were . . . well, you know.”

  “Lovers?”

  “We would have been,” Lowell said sullenly.

  “What happened?”

  “You’re the chief of police, you got the file, you can read. Figure it out.”

  “I read about how you were obsessed with Amanda.”

  “Hey, man, she loved me. Maybe she still does, all I know.”

  “Do you still love her?”

  “No, man, I got no use for her now. It’s all confusing, you know?” He scratched his elbow. “I mean, we were going to be together. Should have been together, but it all got mixed up. First that old biddy next door got involved. . . .”

  “You mean her next-door neighbor?”

  “Nah, I mean the old lady with the shop across from hers. Bigmouthed bitch.”

  “Marian O’Connor?”

  “Yeah, somethin’ like that. Anyway, she told the cops I was bothering Amanda, told them she’d seen me around the shop at night. And then that guy got involved. He was hanging around her all the time. Every day, man, he was right there, in her face.”

  “You’re referring to her business partner?”

  “Huh?”

  “Derek England was her business partner.”

  “Whatever.” Lowell shrugged.

  “He was murdered a week ago.” Sean leaned forward to watch Lowell’s face.

  “What?” His brows drew together slowly. “The dude is dead?”

  Sean nodded.

  “Ha. What do you know about that?” Lowell sat back in his chair. “Someone took the dude out.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know who, would you?”

  “Me? You crazy?” Lowell scoffed. “I didn’t even know about it till just now. Why would you even think that?”

  “Because right before England was killed, someone started sending Ms. Crosby the same kind of messages that you had.”

  “Someone’s sending . . .” He looked puzzled. “I don’t know nothing about that, man. How could I? I been in here all this time. The judge, he told me not to have any contact with her, not ever. I can’t talk to her, call her. . . . Shit, when I get out, I won’t even be able to drive down her street without getting arrested.”

  Sean continued to watch the young man’s face. “Maybe you have a friend—”

  “I got no friends, man.”

  “Who comes to see you?”

  “My mother, once in a while. My sister, she came a time or two back in the beginning, but she hasn’t been around in a long time. You can check that out easy enough with the warden, though. I ain’t telling you anything you can’t find out on your own.”

  “It’s odd, don’t you think, that whoever is doing this is following exactly the pattern you set?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “I mean the person who is calling her and hanging up the phone is also leaving red roses on her front doorstep.”

  “Huh. Really?”

  “Really. And since the police never released the information about the roses to the public, I got to thinking that maybe you told someone about it.”

  Sean’s eyes never left Lowell’s face.

  “No, I never told . . .”

  A faint light began to dawn ever so slowly in Lowell’s pale blue eyes. Sean could see it.

  “I never told no one.” Lowell shook his head vehemently, his gaze suddenly fixated on a spot on the wall somewhere behind Sean’s head.

  “Then I guess that means that someone else is in love with Amanda Crosby and bringing her roses.”

  “I . . . I don’t know. I mean, I guess maybe. Yeah. Her luck, huh?” Lowell stood up and nodded to the guard. “I want to go back now.”

  “So you have no thoughts at all about who could be copying you?”

  “I told you, man.” His parting smile was faintly smug. “No. I don’t know nothing about it.”

  The guard unlocked the door, and Archer Lowell disappeared through it.

  Sean remained in the chair, rubbing his chin. He’d bet everything he had that when Archer Lowell first entered the room, he’d had no idea that someone had been mimicking his actions. Yet when he walked out, there’d been the briefest hint of . . . something. As if Sean had tipped him off to something so secret even Sean wasn’t aware of it.

  What, Sean wondered, had he said that had sparked that dim little faraway light in Archer Lowell’s dull eyes?

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  Sean settled into the back row of the small lecture hall at the Avon County Community Center, where Amanda Crosby was speaking, glad that he’d taken the time to change from his uniform to street clothes even though the stop at home had made him late by several minutes. As one of the few men in the crowd of roughly fifty people, he stood out enough as it was.

  At the front of the narrow room, Amanda was already speaking, leaning back against a wooden table. He appreciated the opportunity to observe her without those green eyes boring into him, to look at her as something other than a suspect.

  Her short dark hair spiked a little higher than he’d ever seen it, she wore trim black pants and a white shirt, shiny round silver earrings, a thin band on the middle finger of her right hand, and a silver watch with a narrow black leather strap on her left wrist. Though he couldn’t see them from this distance, he knew her eyes were flecked with gold and outlined by dark lashes. She looked relaxed and casual, almost elegant. And totally in charge.

  “. . . on the handout to see the statistics. One out of every twelve women—one out of forty-five men—will be the victim of a stalker at some time in their life. If you are a woman, there is a seventy-seven percent chance that you will know your stalker—sixty-four percent if you are a man. Ladies, if you are a victim, you have a sixty percent chance of being stalked by an intimate partner. Men, almost the opposite is true. Thirty percent of men who are stalked, are stalked by an intimate partner.”

  Her hands slid into the pockets of her pants as she paced slowly, walking the distance between one end of the table and the other with measured steps.

  “How will a stalker most likely try to get your attention? He’ll place unwanted calls to your house, to your place of business. Sometimes
he’ll breathe into the phone. Sometimes he’ll just hang up when you answer, or he’ll leave messages on your answering machine. If you have email, he might send you cryptic messages or e-cards. Maybe he’ll vandalize your property—scratch your car or break a window in your house. Maybe he’ll threaten harm to you or someone you love, maybe your pet. He might leave you gifts, anonymously or not. He will watch you at all hours of the day or night. He’ll know where you go, and he’ll go there, too. He’ll show up at your home, your work, your favorite restaurant, your friends’ homes. Sometimes you won’t even know he’s been there. Until he calls you later to describe what you were wearing.”

  Amanda leaned against the table again and planted both feet in front of her.

  “Why does he do these things?”

  Sean glanced around the room. The crowd was hanging on her every word. Some were taking notes.

  “He does these things because he doesn’t seem to be able to not do them. There are different degrees of behavior, of course, and different types of stalkers. But they all share certain characteristics.” She cleared her throat.

  “As a general rule, all stalkers suffer from some mental or personality disorder. They may be obsessive-compulsive, schizophrenic, paranoid, delusional, socially maladjusted with low self-esteem—or a combination of some one or several. Sometimes they will fixate on a famous person—a celebrity or an athlete—and will fantasize about a relationship that doesn’t exist except in the mind of the stalker. Sometimes he or she will imagine a personal relationship with a stranger or an acquaintance. Or maybe the stalker will have had a past relationship with the victim. Some stalkers are violent; some are not. Some are likely to come no closer to their victim than the telephone. Others are capable of the most vicious attacks. Some are even capable of murder. Over the course of the next hour and a half, we’ll talk about what steps you can take to protect yourself and what to do if you think you are being stalked.”

  She walked behind the table, took a sip of water from a bottle, then searched through a pile of papers until she found what she was looking for. She handed a stack to one of the women in the front row and asked her to distribute them to the others.

  “Let’s talk about how to recognize if you’re being stalked. . . .”

  Sean’s attention began to drift. He knew this part. He’d given a similar lecture himself to the women’s club in Normandy, West Virginia, where he’d last worked. There had been times since moving here to Broeder that he’d questioned the wisdom of leaving Normandy, but all in all, he suspected, it was for the best. Greer had been so insistent.

  “Come on, Sean. This is fate. It just can’t be a coincidence that we’re in need of a new police chief at exactly the same time I finally found you again. Say yes, Sean, please?” When he hadn’t responded, she’d pleaded, “At least come and interview for the job. Maybe you won’t like it here. Maybe they won’t like you. But at least say you’ll apply?”

  He’d applied. And he had liked the town, liked the feel of it, liked the pace, just as much as he’d liked Normandy. And the committee appointed by the president of the borough council to select the new police chief had liked him, Greer assured him after his first interview. What she hadn’t told him was that Steve, her husband, was the president of the council, and that she’d made sure that he understood how important it was to her to have her younger brother back in her life again after all these years of being separated.

  Sean couldn’t help but smile to himself. Greer had always been a bossy thing. He remembered that much about her.

  And it wasn’t as if he wasn’t happy here. He liked the job. He had a force of men and women he was proud of, good cops, each of them professional and caring. He was paid well and sensed that the townspeople both liked and respected him and the job he’d done so far. He had a little house—Greer had found it for him and was forever nagging him about its lack of furnishing and general warmth, but he suspected she’d been watching too many decorating shows on TV. Lately she’d been threatening to just take over and “create an environment” for him. Whatever that meant.

  “. . . document every single incident,” Amanda was saying. “Take photographs if you can. Videos can be even better. Get statements from anyone who witnessed the incident and save every one of the answering machine tapes . . .”

  He wondered how Amanda’s story might have been different had she done those things right from the start. From the file, it was obvious that she’d reacted too late to the situation. Things had escalated to a point of no return before she’d begun to build her case against Archer Lowell. Because she’d thrown away the early notes that Lowell had left for her and because she’d taken no photos and erased all the messages on her answering machine, she had nothing to show the police when she went to them.

  He wondered what her detective brother had had to say about her lack of forethought. He wondered how long it had progressed before she even told him. Sean had read her statement several times. He understood why she had thought she could handle the young man herself, why she thought a simple, Sorry, Archer, I’m not interested in you that way, but I would like to be your friend, would be sufficient. Most women would think that way.

  He guessed that might be why she’d taken it upon herself to volunteer to give these lectures.

  She may have been naive as far as Archer’s intentions were, but she sure as hell projected self-confidence now. Ms. Crosby was, without question, large and in charge these days.

  Not so large, though, he thought, watching her slender body pace as he leaned forward to hear a question someone had asked. Amanda’s response was crisp and to the point. Watching her, one would never suspect that anyone had intimidated her, broken her down, least of all some slimy little wienie like Archer Lowell.

  Then again, the woman standing at the front of the room seemed harder, stronger, than the woman whose step had faltered when she’d found the rose that someone had left for her, or whose hands had begun to shake when she’d gotten that hang-up call.

  Which was the real Amanda Crosby? he wondered.

  And was either of them capable of murder?

  Sean had been asking himself that all afternoon, ever since he’d interviewed Marian O’Connor and Iona McGowan, both of whom Amanda had spoken with about her partner’s black market purchase. Both had admitted that Amanda had been furious with Derek. And both, after he’d worn them down, had admitted that Amanda had made some pretty damning remarks.

  “Ms. McGowan, what did Ms. Crosby say about Mr. England’s buying this vase?” he’d asked.

  “It was a goblet,” Iona had replied.

  “Right. Goblet. I know she discussed this with you. She had you get in touch with your sister—she told me that. So she must have said something to you about her partner buying it, and I’d like to know what that something was.”

  Iona had stared at him for a long minute, then said, “Amanda was not happy that Derek had bought the goblet.”

  “Not happy. Is that what she said? ‘Iona, I’m not happy that Derek bought this goblet’?” He had leaned forward just slightly. “Or did she say something a little stronger than ‘I’m not happy . . .’?”

  His witness appeared restless then, and he knew his instincts had been right. They both knew what Amanda had said. He just wanted to hear Iona say it.

  “Ms. McGowan?” He tilted his head to place himself in her line of vision, since she’d turned away from him just slightly, as if unable to meet his eyes. “Did Ms. Crosby say she was going to welcome Mr. England home with open arms?”

  “She said . . . something about not being sure she wanted to continue the business partnership.”

  “That’s all? ‘I’m not sure I want to be his partner anymore’?” He had stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I guess I can understand that. The guy spent all their money on a black market purchase. I can see where she’d be really pissed. And she was really pissed off, wasn’t she?”

  Iona had nodded stiffly.

 
; “And she said . . . What else did she say?” he persisted.

  “I don’t remember everything she said.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet you do. I’ll bet she said something along the lines of ‘I could just smack him.’ Or ‘I could just shoot him.’ Or ‘I could just—’ ”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, she said something along those lines.”

  “ ‘I could just kill him.’ ” Sean had watched Iona’s face. “That’s what she said, isn’t it?”

  “She didn’t mean she’d actually kill him.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t. But that is what she said, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes, but how many times have you been so angry at someone that you said that? Or something like that? I’ve done it.”

  “We’ve all done it.”

  “It doesn’t mean she killed him. She would never . . .” Iona had struggled for words. “She would never hurt anyone. Especially someone she loved. And for all their differences, all the ups and downs they’ve had over the years, she and Derek loved each other. They were like brother and sister. That’s how it was between them. She’d get angry with him, and at times he’d get angry with her. But she would never have hurt him, nor him, her.”

  “Thank you, Ms. McGowan. You’re free to go.”

  Even now, hours later, Sean wasn’t sure he didn’t regret having goaded Iona into the admission. It smacked of dirty pool, of the type of police interrogation he’d always tried to avoid. Of course he had thought that Amanda might have made a statement like that in anger. And Iona was right. He had said things like that himself over the years. The difference was, he had never gone and done it. It remained to be seen whether Amanda Crosby had.

  “Certainly, if the stalker is someone you know, you need to tell him—or her—that they need to stop. Tell them you will go to the police—and then do it.” She seemed to be addressing a woman several rows back. Had they moved into Q and A already?

  And then there was Marian O’Connor, the woman who owned the shop directly across from Amanda’s. She, too, had heard Amanda make damning statements, but she, too, had insisted that it had been nothing more than a reaction, words tossed off in the heat of the moment.