All Fall Down (32 page)

C
onnor gazed at the skeletal remains of what had been his sister. A scuba-diving class had discovered her. Discovered them, he corrected. Whoever had killed her had also murdered a man, bound them together in a plastic drop cloth, weighted them with York weights and dumped them into the deepest part of Lake Alexander. Included in the gruesome package was the fireplace poker missing from Suzi's house.

“We wouldn't have been able to identify her so quickly if not for the poker,” the young agent standing beside Connor said. “Ben Miller remembered about your sister and put two and two together.”

Connor couldn't find his voice. All the years of searching, of wondering, were over. Now he knew.

“Most likely,” the rookie agent continued, “she never even knew what hit her.”

So the forensic pathologist had told Connor. Judging by Suzi's fractured skull, the size and location of the single large fissure, he had determined that a single blow to the back of her head had killed her. It had been his opinion that she'd been dead before she went in the water.

Thank God for that, Connor thought, shifting his gaze from his sister's remains to those of her partner.
He'd always known he had been overlooking something important in his investigation of her murder. Something obvious. He realized now that he had been blinded by emotion. Blinded by prejudice against her lover, by his own certainty that he
knew
what had happened.

In the process, he had ignored a scenario as old as time.

The jilted wife kills her cheating man. And his lover. The pieces all fit now; it all made sense. The lingerie drawer, the sensible stuff the UNSUB had chosen to pack, the way the scene had been scrubbed.

A wave of sadness moved over him, one of regret. That he couldn't help Suzi, that he couldn't change the past. That the bright light that had been his sister was forever extinguished. She had been too good a person, filled with too much promise, to end up the way she had.

“This UNSUB knew what he was doing.” The agent indicated the weights. “We estimated the two weighed around three hundred pounds. The killer used three hundred and thirty pounds of counterweight. The fact that our guy here was drilled in the chest didn't hurt, either.”

Connor nodded. To keep a body submerged in water for a long period of time, the counterweight needed to be at least ten percent more than the total body weight since, during decomposition, gases formed that would lift the body to the surface. A puncture in the chest cavity aided submersion as it provided a release for some of the gases—a technique perfected by the Mafia.

He swung toward the rookie. “Do we know who he is yet?”

“Just got a match on the dental records an hour ago. Daniel Ford. A prominent area attorney. Crazy thing is, he was presumed dead in that Jet-Air flight that blew en route to Chicago.”

“I remember it.” Connor narrowed his eyes, feeling the adrenaline begin to pump through him. The excitement. Finally, after all this time, he would have justice for his sister. “Insurance company pay off?”

“Yup. Check went to the wife. One Veronica Ford.”

The hair on the back of Connor's neck stood up. “Veronica Ford,” he repeated.
Melanie's friend. The assistant D.A.

“We don't know much about her yet. She's a Markham. Her old man was a wheel in Charleston, a big local benefactor. He gave to nearly every cause in town.”

“Was?” Connor repeated, looking at the other agent, knowing the answer to his next question before asking it. “He's dead?”

“Yeah, a few years back. It was in all the papers. Died in a freak—”

“Accident,” Connor supplied. “Son of a bitch.” He flipped open his cell phone and punched the Charlotte field office number, all the while snapping orders to the rookie. “I need the coroner's report on Markham and a chopper. ASAP.” He switched his attention to his call. “Steve, Connor. I'm in Charleston. I need a warrant for the arrest of Assistant District Attorney
Veronica Ford. For the murders of Daniel Ford, Suzi Parks and a yet unknown number of victims. She's our Dark Angel, Steve. We got her.” His voice thickened. “I got her.”

M
elanie rang Mia's bell, then pounded on the door with her fist, urgency pulling at her.

Veronica was the Dark Angel killer. Veronica was the one who had been setting her up.

Ashley had seen it, though sideways, through her distorted sense of reality. She had become obsessed with Veronica, an obsession spawned from jealousy over the woman's relationship with her sisters. She had become convinced that something was off about the other woman, that she was not what she seemed.

Through tricks like the one she pulled at the Charleston D.A.'s, Ashley had discovered that Veronica had been friends with a couple of women whose spouses had died suddenly and in freakish circumstances. A fact she had noted, but one that hadn't registered as being more than odd.

She'd uncovered another oddity while following Veronica. The woman kept unusual hours and visited unlikely places—interstate truck stops, all-night diners and swingers' clubs. And although Ashley had often waited hours, her gaze trained on the lawyer's car, Veronica hadn't reappeared on several occasions.

Other people had come and gone—one of whom Ashley remembered seeing several times—a hard
looking blonde outfitted totally in black leather. Until Ashley had seen a news clip about Melanie being investigated for both Boyd's and the Dark Angel murders, she hadn't put it all together.

The pieces fit so neatly, Melanie acknowledged. She and Veronica were the same size, general build and coloring. Since Boyd's death, Veronica had been staying with Mia. Through Mia, Veronica had access to Melanie's schedule, the keys to her house, her spare car keys—she could even have learned about Stan's homemade granola. And Mia often picked up her sister's dry cleaning, which included her Whistlestop PD uniforms.

And who better to set up to take a fall for Boyd's murder than Melanie? Veronica had deduced, correctly, that since the other deaths were all speculative, the police might conclude that the Dark Angel was a hoax perpetrated by Melanie to cover up the murders of her ex-husband and brother-in-law. Melanie had motive and opportunity—she fit Connor's profile.

But so did Veronica—her age, educational level, knowledge of the law and her background of abuse. Her mother's suicide, the way Veronica had seemed to change in the past few months, her friendship with Mia and Boyd's subsequent death.

It all fit.

Melanie pounded on Mia's door again. She had left her sister several messages from the car and she'd been certain she would be home by now. Mia would be able to place more of the puzzle, she would be able to confirm things Melanie could only guess about.

The sidelight drape fluttered and Mia peeked out, then opened the door.

“Mia, thank God!” Melanie said as she stumbled across the threshold. “Where have you been?”

“Running. I just got your messages, what in heaven's name—”

“You've got to listen…I know who's been setting me up. It's not Ashley…I talked to Ash, she helped me see… Mia, I know who the Dark Angel is!”

Her sister caught her hands. “Melanie, slow down. You're talking crazy.”

“It's not crazy. I need your help. We need to put our heads together and—”

“First, we sit.” Mia closed and locked the door, then led her to the living room. Mia took a seat on the couch. Melanie remained standing, too agitated to be calm or still.

“Okay, Melanie,” Mia said, folding her hands in her lap. “Start at the beginning, tell me everything.”

“Yes, Melanie,” Veronica said from behind her. “Tell us everything.”

Melanie turned slowly, gooseflesh crawling up her arms. The lawyer stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. She was dressed identically to Mia—running shorts and shoes, a T-shirt.

She moved farther into the room. “And please do start at the beginning. The point where you decided to kill your ex-husband.”

Melanie thought of Casey, of Connor and everything she had been through in the past days and was so angry she shook. “That's what you wanted the world to believe, wasn't it, Veronica? But it's all over
now. I know about you. And soon, everyone else will, too.”

“You should have been a writer,” Veronica said, smiling coldly. “Fiction, of course.” She went to the coffee table, opened the decorative box at its center. When she turned, Melanie saw that she had a gun. “You're a killer, Melanie May. You killed your sister's husband, you attempted to kill your own ex-husband. The police have proof.”

“Evidence you planted!”

“How many men's lives have you taken?” Veronica asked, moving closer. “How many bastards who deserved to die? How many cruel, little men who'd slipped through the fingers of justice?”

“Is that why you killed all of those men?” Melanie longed to look over her shoulder at Mia, but was afraid to take her eyes from Veronica. She prayed that when the time came, her sister would be capable of doing what needed to be done. “Because they deserved to die? Because you were a helpless victim once? Is that why you became the Dark Angel?”

“The Dark Angel?” She repeated the words on a sneer. “That's your name for her. It's not right and she doesn't like it. She's an angel of mercy. Of justice.”

“Really? And how many men are dead because of her mercy?” Melanie arched her eyebrows in exaggerated disbelief. “Six? Ten? Twenty?”

“Is she supposed to feel bad about that? Get a clue, Melanie. The world's a much better place without those twelve pieces of human refuse. You know it, you're just too afraid to admit it's true.”

Twelve. There had been twelve victims so far.
“Maybe you're right. Maybe I am scared. Too scared to step in and help. That's what she does, right? Help women in trouble?”

Veronica's lips curved in a self-satisfied smile. “Men like that, they never change. No matter how much you love them, no matter how hard you try to please them. You give and give until you've got nothing more to offer. And still, they hurt you. They betray you. All men like that know is cruelty.”

“The Angel understands that,” Melanie offered. “But the women didn't, they needed guidance.”

“Exactly. If she helped them, they would see, too. If she helped them, they'd have another chance. A fresh start.”

She and Connor had been right. The women were the link, not the men.
“So, what did she do?” Melanie asked, inching closer. “Befriend the woman, then get close to the man? Learn his strengths? His weaknesses?”

“Everybody has a weakness,” Veronica agreed. “A place where they're especially vulnerable to attack. The trick is finding that place.” She laughed to herself, as if remembering, and shook her head. “Sometimes you don't even need a trick, just the guts to go for it. Like with your Thomas Weiss. She learned about his allergy to bee venom without ever talking to him. She learned everything she needed to know sitting at the Blue Bayou bar, sipping wine and listening.”

The pride in Veronica's voice turned Melanie's stomach. “And let me guess, the first woman she helped was herself.”

“There are no accidents, Melanie, only surprise visits from angels of mercy. But only to the very lucky. She was one of those.”

Veronica went on, telling both women about the Angel's childhood, about her cold, critical father and how she had always tried to measure up in his eyes. She told them about her mother, how, despondent over her husband's inattention, she took a gun, put it in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

“But still, the Angel longed for love,” Veronica murmured. “She prayed for a man who would adore her. Finally, she thought she had found him. His name was Daniel. He was everything she'd dreamed of, handsome, charming, successful. He swept her off her feet.

“But he was like the rest—small and cruel. She lived in fear of making even the simplest decision, for if she chose wrong she would face swift retribution. She never knew when the violence would erupt…never.”

Melanie swallowed hard, familiar with the scenario, discomfited by it. She dared a glance over her shoulder at Mia, frozen on the couch. She saw the recognition in Mia's expression, too.

Veronica's expression softened with sympathy. “She picked you, Melanie, because she could relate to your situation. Like your ex-husband, hers controlled her by keeping her down, down low.

“He bought her a gun, supposedly so she could protect herself when he was out of town. Instead, he taunted her with it. Taunted her with her mother's sui
cide. When would she do it? When would she blow her brains out?”

Veronica paused a moment, as if to reorganize her thoughts. “She began to suspect he was having an affair. She confronted him.”

“But he denied it.”

“Of course. So, she followed him. She learned his lover's name, where she lived. This time when she confronted him, she was prepared. She threatened to run to her father. How long, she had demanded, would he keep Daniel on the payroll once he knew?

“He broke down and begged. Pleaded for another chance, promised the affair was over. It was so unlike him, she allowed herself to believe he really loved her. That he'd changed.”

“But he hadn't changed,” Melanie murmured. “Had he?”

Veronica's mouth thinned. “He had a rich wife—that was what he loved. A wife whose father had made him a millionaire overnight.” She glanced down at the gun, then back up at Melanie. “Several days later, she drove him to the airport. He was scheduled for a meeting in Chicago, he would be gone only until late that night. As was their custom, she walked him to the gate, kissed him goodbye, watched him board with the other first-class passengers, then she walked away. The plane exploded midflight. There were no survivors.”

“But her husband wasn't on that flight, was he?” Melanie murmured.

“She didn't know that, not for hours. Not until late that night, when he walked through their front door. Very much alive, not a wrinkle in his Italian suit.

“At first she was overjoyed. Then confused. He was alive. He, obviously, knew nothing of the air disaster. Then she realized why. He hadn't been on that flight. He'd been with his lover. He had tricked her, had her drive him to the airport and walk him to the gate so she wouldn't be suspicious. So she wouldn't have cause to doubt him and go running to her father.

“She flew into a rage, accusing him of walking off the flight as soon as she'd left the gate area, of spending the day with
her.
”

Veronica shook her head, remembering. “He laughed at her fury. He taunted her. What would she do if it were true? Would she kill herself, the way her mother had? He urged her to do it. He went to her nightstand, he got out the gun and tossed it onto the bed. Do it, he urged her. Just like her pathetic mother. Get it over with.

“I heard the shower,” Veronica said, slipping into first person, not seeming to even notice she had done it. “I stared at the gun, a part of me wanting to do it. To pick it up, bring it to my mouth and pull the trigger. It'd be so easy, so quick. I wouldn't hurt, never again.

“I reached for it. But as I did, something came over me. Something clear and strong, something freeing. I was filled with a sensation of pure power. Of purpose.

“I got the gun. I cocked it. But instead of turning it on myself, I walked into the bathroom, pulled aside the shower curtain and blew a hole in him.”

“My God,” Melanie murmured.

Veronica went on as if she hadn't spoken. “He was naked, the shower washed away the blood. I went out to the garage in search of a plastic drop cloth I'd used
recently. I rolled him onto it, then tied the package with some nylon rope I also found in the garage. I figured I'd attach some of the weights from Daniel's home gym to the bundle and drop him in the lake.”

“Lake?” Melanie repeated.

“We had a weekend house on Lake Alexander, about two and a half hours north. It, like everybody else's, was closed up for the winter. There'd be nobody around to see what I was doing.”

Veronica laughed. “I felt so good, so powerful. Invincible. I was free of him. And nobody would know.”

“Because he was already dead,” Mia supplied, voice high and strange-sounding. “It was the perfect crime.”

“Except the lover,” Melanie corrected. “But you knew her name and address.”

“In the end, I added her to Daniel's bundle, finding poetic justice in the fact that they would be together forever.”

“And no one came looking for him,” Mia murmured. “Not ever.”

“Not ever.” She smiled, the curving of her lips as self-satisfied as a cat's. “My life was changed after that. It was good.
I
was good. I finished law school. I promised myself I'd never be a victim again. And I've never looked back. Never had to.”

Her smile disappeared. “Until now, Melanie. Everything was going great until you came along. You had to go and be supercop and ruin it all. Why couldn't you have just kept your nose out of my busi
ness? Why couldn't you have taken no for an answer?”

“Don't blame me for your mistakes. You got sloppy. I brought you Thomas Weiss, for God's sake. Didn't you think I'd note the strangeness of his death? Didn't you think I'd read about Jim McMillian's death and put two and two together?”

“No one else did.” Angry color flew into her cheeks. “
You
were my mistake, Melanie. I picked you. At Starbucks, I overheard you and your sisters talking. I heard about your troubles with Stan. About Mia's with Boyd. I liked you both immediately, I felt for you. I wanted to help.”

At Melanie's disbelieving expression, she rolled her eyes. “Do you really think it was an accident we ended up at the same dojang? That we became such fast friends so quickly? Of course not. I
chose
you. And Mia. To make your lives better. And now look what you've done.”