Dead Wrong Page 2

  “Never thought about it.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You’re in here because of a mistaken identity. After being picked up for a traffic violation. Guess the first guy you’d be going to see is that other Curtis Channing, right? Then maybe the cop who arrested you.”

  Channing laughed, and Giordano added, “Hey, Curtis, we’re just bullshitting here. There has to be someone, someplace, who you’d like to show a thing or two if you ever got the chance.”

  Channing stared out the window. Finally, he said, “Well, if I were paying visits, as you say, I guess I’d stop off at my mother’s old boyfriend’s.”

  “That’s all?”

  “There’s a writer I wouldn’t mind having a little chat with.” Channing thought of a hotshot writer of true crime, including last year’s blockbuster The Serial Killer Next Door. The man had appeared on all the morning talk shows as well as Larry King Live and Letterman, and had been an insufferable know-it-all who, Channing thought, didn’t really know dick about the subject matter. He was itching to show him where he’d gotten it wrong.

  “That’s only two,” Lowell reminded him. “You got one more.”

  Channing thought it over. There’d been that dark-haired FBI agent who’d interviewed him a few years back in Ohio, bringing a particularly satisfying run to an end. She’d seen right through him, and he’d known it. He’d wanted to reach across the table and break her pretty neck, but he had much more self-control than that. As soon as the interview was over, he’d quietly disappeared and taken his work elsewhere. But he’d gone with the feeling that given the chance, she’d be right on his heels.

  “Well,” he said with a smile, “there’s a cute little FBI agent that I’d like to see again. Just to see if the chemistry is still the same.”

  Giordano snorted.

  “Course, if we really did these things, if we really ever did go see ’em and . . . well, you know, did stuff“—Lowell grinned stupidly—”it isn’t like the cops wouldn’t know who to look for, you know? Like, Vince, they find your mother-in-law with a bullet in her head after you get out, the cops’ll be like, Duh. Wonder who shot her?”

  “Well, it was just talk. Didn’t mean nothing.” Giordano shrugged, and the three fell silent.

  “Unless we like, you know, switch our people,” Lowell said brightly.

  Giordano frowned. “What d’ya mean, switch our people?”

  “You know, like that movie. The one on the train, where these two guys meet and they each agree to whack someone that the other one wants—”

  “Whoa, buddy. Watch it.” Giordano glanced nervously at Channing. Who knew who this guy really was? Or Lowell, either, for that matter. “This was just idle talk. That’s all. Just idle talk.”

  “Sure it is. I know that.” Lowell nodded, eager to placate the man whom he knew to be a convicted killer. “But it doesn’t hurt to pretend. We got nothing else to do in here right now. No TV, no radio. We gotta think about something.”

  “How old are you, Lowell?” Giordano’s tone was patronizing.

  “Nineteen.”

  “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “Your loose mouth, that’s what,” Giordano snapped.

  “No, come on. It’s just a game. A game, that’s all,” Lowell hastened to assure Giordano.

  “You ever kill anyone, Lowell?” Giordano asked softly.

  Lowell shook his head.

  “You, Channing?”

  Channing merely stared.

  The two older men studied each other wordlessly, as if trading secrets.

  Then Lowell, oblivious to the silent exchange, said, “If we were going to play the game, then we would each have a list, and we’d each promise to do someone else’s list, right?”

  Giordano laughed. “Boy, you don’t give up, do you, kid?”

  “First, we’d have to decide how to figure out who would, you know, do whose people.” Lowell was beginning to get into it. “I know. We could each pick a number between one and thirty and guess which number the other guy is thinking of.”

  Giordano laughed again.

  Lowell said, “Okay, you, Channing, you go first. Think of a number between one and thirty, and me and Vince will see if we can guess. Whoever comes closest to your number gets your names.”

  “Let’s just keep it simple,” Channing suggested. “Archer takes my list, I take yours, Giordano, and you take Archer’s.” Amused, Channing thought that if Lowell’s hands hadn’t been cuffed together, he’d be clapping like a five-year-old. Even more amusing was the thought that he needed anyone to help him find a victim. As if he’d ever needed anyone’s help. Over the years, he’d done quite well all by himself.

  “Cool.” Lowell nodded vigorously, prompting Giordano, whose enthusiasm lagged behind that of his young companion, to remind him, “It’s just a game, Archer. Just a game.”

  Giordano glanced around the room and appeared suddenly wary, uncertain of his companions.

  “Just a game,” he repeated again a bit more forcefully, his voice leaden with caution. The kid was stupid and, in Giordano’s eyes, growing more stupid with each passing minute. He had half a mind to tell him just that. And he would have, had it not been for the fact that Curtis Channing appeared to be strangely entertained.

  “Okay, so tell me about who’s on your list, Channing,” Archer Lowell, oblivious to Giordano’s scorn, begged eagerly. “Tell me about who I’d be going to see.”

  “I think we should lower our voices,” Giordano sighed, as if resigned to play along. “Just in case someone is listening. Even though it’s just a game . . . and none of this is ever going to happen. . . .”

  “Right, right. Sure.” Lowell nodded intensely, his eyes shining now with excitement as he leaned forward in his chair as far as he could, considering his shackles. “Sure. None of this is ever going to really happen. It’s just a game. I know that. Just a game . . .”

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  OH, SURE, I HEARD THE LITTLE ONE CRYING. AND THE middle one, too. Only one I never heard was the older one, the boy. They ain’t lived here long—maybe a month or so. I never saw much of them. Oh, once in a while, I’d pass the boy on the steps. He never had much to say. No, never saw the mother bring men home. Never saw her much at all, though—don’t know when she came or went. Heard her sometimes, though. God knows she was loud enough, screaming at them kids the way she done. No, don’t know what she was doin’ to ’em to make ’em cry like that. No, never saw no social worker come around. Don’t know if the kids went to school.

  Did I what? No, never called nobody about it. Wasn’t none of my business, what went on over there. Hey, I got troubles of my own. . . .

  Mara Douglas rubbed her temples with the tips of her fingers, an unconscious gesture she made when steeped in thought or deeply upset. Reading through the notes she’d taken while interviewing the elderly, toothless, across-the-hall neighbor of the Feehan family, she was at once immersed in the children’s situation and sick to her stomach. The refrain was all too familiar. The neighbors heard, the neighbors turned a deaf ear rather than get involved. It was none of their business what a woman did to her children, none of their business if the kids had fallen through all the cracks. In neighborhoods as poor as this, all the tenants seemed to live in their own hell. Who could worry about someone else’s?

  Mara rested her elbow on the edge of the dining room table, her chin in the palm of her hand, and marveled how a child could survive such neglect and abuse and so often still defend the parent who had inflicted the physical and emotional pain.

  Time after time, case after case, she’d seen the bond between parent and child tested, stretched to the very limit. Sometimes even years of the worst kind of abuse and neglect failed to fray that connection.

  She turned her attention back to the case she was working on now. The mother’s rights were being challenged by the paternal grandparents, who’d had custody of the three children—ages four, seven,
and nine—for the past seven months. Mara was the court-appointed advocate for the children, the one who would speak on their behalf at all legal proceedings, the one whose primary interest—whose only interest—was the best interests of the children.

  As their champion, Mara spent many hours reviewing the files provided by the social workers from the county Children and Youth Services department and medical reports from their physicians, and still more hours interviewing the social workers themselves, along with neighbors and teachers, emergency room personnel, family members, and family friends. All in an effort to determine what was best for the children, where their needs—all their needs—might best be met, and by whom.

  Mara approached every case as a sacred trust, an opportunity to stand for that child as she would stand for her own. Tomorrow she would do exactly that, when she presented her report and her testimony to the judge who would determine whether Kelly Feehan’s parental rights should be terminated and custody of her three children awarded to their deceased father’s parents. It probably wouldn’t be too tough a call.

  Kelly, an admitted prostitute and heroin addict, had watched her world begin to close in on her after her fifth arrest for solicitation. Her nine-year-old had stayed home from school to take care of his siblings until Kelly could make bail. Unfortunately for Kelly, her former in-laws, who had been searching for the children for months while their mother had moved them from one low-rent dive to another, had finally tracked them down. The Feehans had called the police. Their next move had been to take temporary custody of the children, who were found bruised, battered, and badly malnourished.

  Over time, it became apparent that Kelly wasn’t doing much to rehabilitate herself. She’d shown up high on two of her last three visitation days, and the grandparents had promptly filed a petition to terminate Kelly’s parental rights permanently. Total termination of parental rights was a drastic step, one never made lightly nor without a certain amount of angst and soul searching.

  Mara knew all too well the torment of losing a child.

  In the end, of course, the decision would rest in the hands of Judge McKettrick, whom Mara knew from experience was always reluctant to sever a parent’s rights when the parent contested as vehemently as Kelly Feehan had. Much would depend on the information brought to the court in the morning. The responsibility to present everything fairly, without judgment or embellishment, was one that Mara took very seriously.

  With the flick of her finger, the screen of Mara’s laptop went blank, then filled with the image of a newborn snuggled up against a shoulder covered by a yellow and white hospital gown. The infant’s hair was little more than pale fuzz, the eyes closed in slumber, the perfect rosebud mouth puckered just so.

  Another flick of a finger, and the image was gone.

  Mara’s throat constricted with the pain of remembrance, the memories of the joy that had filled her every time she’d held that tiny body against her own. Abruptly she pushed back from the table and walked to the door.

  “Spike,” she called, and from the living room came the unmistakable sound of a little dog tail thumping on hard wood. “It’s time to go for a walk.”

  Spike knew walk, but not time, which was just as well, since it was past one in the morning. But once the thorn of memory began to throb, Mara had to work it out of her system. Her conditioned response to emotional pain was physical. Any kind of sustained movement would do—a walk, a run, a bike ride, a trip to the gym. Anything that got her on her feet was acceptable, as long as it got her moving through the pain so that she could get past it for a while.

  Mara pursued exhaustion where others might have chosen a bottle or a needle or a handful of pills, though there’d been times in the past when she’d considered those, too.

  By day, Mara’s neighborhood in a suburban Philadelphia college town was normally quiet, but at night, it was as silent as a tomb. She walked briskly, the soles of her walking shoes padding softly on the sidewalk, the occasional streetlamp lighting her way, Spike’s little Jack Russell legs keeping pace. Four blocks down, four blocks over, and back again. That’s what it usually took to clear her head. Tonight she made the loop in record time. She still had work to do, and an appointment in court at nine the next morning.

  The evening’s storm had passed through earlier, and now a full moon hung overhead and cast shadows behind her as she made her way back up the brick walk to her front door. She’d let Spike off the leash at the end of their drive and now stood watching as the dog sniffed at something in the grass.

  “Spike,” she whispered loudly, and the dog looked up, wagging his tail enthusiastically. “Come on, buddy. Time to go in.”

  With obvious reluctance, Spike left whatever it was he’d found on the lawn and followed his mistress to the front steps. Mara unlocked the front door, but did not go immediately inside. She crossed her arms and stared up at the night sky for a long moment, thinking of her own child, wondering once again where in this vast world she was at that exact moment, and who, if anyone, was standing for her.

  On the television screen, the earnest five o’clock news anchor droned on and on, his delivery as flat as his crew cut. Mara turned the volume down to answer the ringing phone.

  “What’s for dinner?” Mara’s sister, Anne Marie, dispensed with a greeting and cut to the chase.

  “I was just asking myself that very thing.” Mara grinned, delighted to hear Annie’s voice.

  “How ’bout a little Chinese?”

  “You buying?”

  “And delivering.”

  “You’re back?”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “What time will you be here?”

  “Thirty minutes, give or take. I’m just leaving the airport. If you call in an order at that little place on Dover Drive, I’ll swing past and pick it up.”

  “Perfect. What do you want?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “Okay. See you soon.”

  Pleased with the unexpected prospect of Annie’s company, Mara found herself whistling while she hunted up the menu. She called in the order, then set about clearing the kitchen table of all the mail that had accumulated over the past several weeks while she had worked on the Feehan case. That case having been heard just that morning, Mara could pack up the materials she’d reviewed and return them to the courthouse in the morning. She wondered where Kelly Feehan had gone that night to drown her sorrows, her parental rights having been severed by Judge McKettrick until such time as Kelly successfully completed a rehabilitation program and obtained legitimate employment, at which time she could file for visitation rights. The odds that Kelly would follow through were slim to none, but the option was there. It had been the best the judge could do for all involved.

  While the decision was clearly in the best interests of the children, it still gave Mara pause to have played a part, however small, in another mother being separated from her babies, even though she knew full well that Kelly had brought her troubles upon herself. Mara had wanted to shake the young mother, shake her good and hard, for having put herself and her children in such a situation.

  You had a choice, Mara had wanted to shout at the sobbing woman as her children left the courtroom with their grandparents. We don’t all get a choice. . . .

  Mara scooped dry dog food into Spike’s new Scooby-Doo dish, then gave him fresh water. She turned up the volume on the television, hoping to catch the weather forecast for the morning. She’d been looking forward to her early morning twice-weekly run with several friends and was hoping that the prediction of rain had changed.

  “. . . and in other news, we have a somewhat bizarre story of two women who have the same name, who lived in the same town, and who met with the same fate exactly one week apart.” The anchorman spoke directly into the camera. “Jason Wrigley is standing by at the Avon County courthouse with the story.”

  Headlights flashing through the living room window announced Annie’s arrival. Mara had just begun to head for the front
door when the reporter’s face appeared on the television.

  “This is Mary Douglas,” the reporter was saying as he displayed a picture of a white-haired woman in her early sixties.

  Mara watched in fascination as he held up a second photograph of another woman years younger, with dark hair and an olive complexion, and said, “And this is Mary Douglas. What do these two woman have in common besides their names?”

  The reporter paused for effect, then faced the camera squarely, both photographs held in one hand, the microphone in the other.

  “Both of these women lived in Lyndon. Both women were killed in their homes in that small community, in exactly the same manner, exactly one week apart. The body of the second victim was found earlier this afternoon. Local police have admitted that they are baffled as to motive.”

  Spike ran to the door and barked when he heard Annie’s heels on the walk, but Mara’s attention remained fixed on the television.

  Video played of a prerecorded press conference. “Without divulging the manner in which the women were murdered, we’re investigating the possibility that the first killing was an error. That the second victim may have been the intended target.”

  The police spokesman paused to listen to a question from the floor, then repeated the question for those who had not heard. “Do we feel it was a contract killing, was the question. I can only say at this point that anything is possible. It has been suggested that perhaps the killer had known only the name of his victim—no description, no address—and that after killing the first victim and perhaps seeing some news coverage or reading the obituary in the newspaper, he realized that he hadn’t killed the right woman. According to friends and family of both victims, neither Mary Douglas had an enemy in the world. Both women were well liked, both lived somewhat quiet lives. So with no apparent motive, we can’t rule out any scenario yet.”

  “Mara?” Annie called from the doorway.

  The police spokesman’s face was taut with concentration as he spoke of the murders. “Yes, we think he sought out the second Mary Douglas and killed her, though we do not know why either of these women would have been targeted, for that matter. . . .”