Crash Into Me (30 page)

Before heading to the crime scene, Sonny
went back to her apartment, took out her laptop, and ran Arlen Diels through
VICAP, the FBI’s main informational database for the apprehension of violent
criminals.

Sure
enough, he had a history that read like a Spanish-language telenovela.

As a
teen, Arlen had spent some time at a boys’ home, and the resident psychiatrist,
a man by the name of Sparks, had written detailed notes.

Arlen
had been born in Beaufort, North Carolina, to fifteen-year-old Cora Lee Diels.
Cora Lee died of a drug overdose in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury district
during the Summer of Love. It wasn’t a great loss for Arlen, who’d been raised
by his grandparents and never known his real mother, but Grandma Lynelle took
the news hard. She passed on soon after, leaving Arlen at the mercy of his
grandfather, an Onslow Bay fisherman by the name of Max Diels.

Max
taught Arlen everything he knew about fishing, fists, and force. Grandpa Max
loved his daughter, Cora Lee, more than a father should, but he hated Arlen.
Just as Arlen would do with his own son, in a sad, vicious cycle, Max varied
between beating his grandson senseless and calling him queer.

After
Max drowned, under suspicious circumstances, in the Albermarle Sound, Arlen was
placed in protective custody. At Black River Home for Wayward Boys, he quickly
obtained a reputation for brutality. He also spent a lot of time in
psychotherapy with Dr. Sparks, who found Arlen an excellent subject for study.
In the good doctor’s opinion, Arlen Diels was a sadist—and a sociopath.

By
the age of nineteen, two years before meeting Anita Vasquez, Arlen had killed a
man during a bar fight in Sarasota, Florida. Instead of waiting for the police
to sort things through, he fled to California, just like his mother had done so
many years before.

The
rest of the story Sonny had to fill in from what information she knew of Arlen
since his hasty departure from the Southern seaboard.

In
San Diego, after spending some time with Anita Vasquez and her young son, Arlen
found work aboard a small fishing vessel called
Destiny.
It was destiny,
all right, because when old man Matthews died he left the boat to his only
daughter, Gabrielle, along with a quaint little two-bedroom house in Torrey
Harbor.

Arlen
proposed immediately.

Gabrielle
was probably delighted that Arlen offered to take her last name. Stephen came
along nine months later. Gabrielle stuck around long enough to get pregnant
with James, and to raise both boys into elementary school.

Then
she disappeared. When Stephen was sixteen and James just eleven, Gabrielle
Matthews fell off the face of the earth, and no one had heard from her since.

Sonny
closed her laptop and rose to her feet. She dressed with special care, focusing
all of her energy on her outward appearance, because inside she was a mess. In
an attempt to maintain a cool, professional façade, she opted for a
sedate white blouse, black tailored trousers, and a matching jacket loose
enough to hide her SIG.

By
the time she arrived at James’ house, Paula DeGrassi and a team of CSIs were
already there. Sonny felt nauseous. She wasn’t ready to face the monster who
was her father again, even if he was stone cold dead, facedown on the bed.

She
forced herself to study the man with detached interest, analyzing details like
an automaton, unable to look Sergeant DeGrassi in the eye.

The
corpse wasn’t the most gruesome sight she’d seen, not by a long shot. It was
the most horrifying, however, because Arlen Matthews didn’t appear to have been
strangled, shot, or stabbed. If anything, he’d been bludgeoned, and by her own
hand.

She
leaned forward, holding her breath against the smell of old booze and fresh
death, trying to see if he’d sustained any other injuries. Had Arlen Matthews
died in his sleep, minutes or hours after she bashed him over the head?

This
was bad. Oh, so much worse than getting caught in bed with Ben.

“His
son found the body,” DeGrassi said, referring to her notes. “Stephen Matthews.
He sounded just like the kid who reported Lisette Bruebaker.”

Sonny
cleared her throat. “Really?”

“Yeah.
And this guy was a small vessel fisherman, so it fits. That’s why I contacted
your special agent in charge.”

Of
course. Sonny hadn’t been checking in, so Grant had no idea that Arlen was
connected to the SoCal murders. Neither had DeGrassi, until now.

“I
asked this kid, Stephen, about the phone call and he acted like he didn’t know
what I meant. Then he said yes, he made the call.” She shrugged. “He’s got
another brother, James Matthews, age seventeen, who lives here and has yet to
be accounted for.”

Sonny’s
mind raced with possibilities. If she didn’t come clean right now, James or
Stephen could be implicated in Arlen’s death. Last night, she’d washed her
drinking glass and worn gloves while searching for clues. Other than the broken
lamp, which might go unnoticed in this heap, there would be no trace of her
here.

Then
again, James would surely tell everyone what she’d done when they found him.
Sonny closed her eyes and clenched her hands into fists, visualizing the dregs
of her career swirling down the toilet.

“What’s
that?” DeGrassi asked, nodding to one of the crime scene technicians.

A
young man in a white jacket and latex gloves was lifting an expensive-looking
bracelet from the top of an open magazine. He froze, letting the jewelry dangle
from the tip of his forceps. “It’s been photographed.”

“Put
it down. I want to look at it.”

Sonny
couldn’t believe her eyes. That bracelet had not been here last night.
Absolutely no way, not a chance. She’d searched every inch of the place.

DeGrassi
stepped forward, adjusting her glasses and peering down at the pretty,
custom-made piece. Sonny came up beside her to do the same.

It
was a simple platinum disk on a delicate silver chain. On the surface of the
disk, a handful of well-placed sparkles, aquamarine and diamonds by the looks
of them, made the crest and swell of a tiny wave.

Sonny’s
breath caught in her throat.

“Hmm,”
DeGrassi said. “Turn it over.”

On
the back, so small as to be almost indiscernible, there was a romantic
dedication. The engraved words made a chill run down Sonny’s spine.

TO O
LIVIA. L OVE, B EN.
F
OREVER.

Sonny
had withheld a lot of information from DeGrassi, but as staff sergeant of the
Homicide Division, she must have known Ben was a suspect in his wife’s murder,
and that he was at the station being interrogated by Grant right now. “Give the
techs a few minutes to see what else turns up, and you can take this to your
S.A.C.”

Sonny
managed a brusque nod.

DeGrassi’s
sharp gaze narrowed on Sonny from over the tops of her reading glasses, but she
didn’t say anything more. Instead, she gestured to the CSI, indicating that he
continue collecting evidence, and bagged the item herself.

Needing
a breath of fresh air, and a moment to recover her wits, Sonny walked out to
the backyard. It was as cluttered with trash and debris as the rest of the
house. She was amazed that James could show up anywhere looking clean; she felt
dirty after only a few minutes inside the place.

Tapping
the toe of her shoe against the concrete patio beneath her feet, she pondered
the case, searching desperately for some answers. Unless Arlen had roused in
the middle of the night and brought out the bracelet, or in her frantic state
of mind she’d missed it, the piece of jewelry had been planted.

Perhaps
Sonny hadn’t killed him after all. But who had? James, after she dropped him
off at Stephen’s? Stephen, before he called to report the old man’s death? Or
Ben, sometime between the orgasms he gave her last night and the awesome sex
they’d had this morning?

Flushing
at the memory, she shook her head in frustration. She couldn’t vouch for
Stephen’s moral character, or blame James for wanting to knock his father off,
but she knew in her heart that Ben wasn’t a murderer.

Arlen,
on the other hand, had Lisette Bruebaker in his fishing net and Olivia
Fortune’s bracelet on top of his dresser. He’d left at least one man dead in
Florida. He also had a murky past that included abused women, tortured
children, and a misplaced wife.

Crossing
her arms over her chest, Sonny frowned down at the cement slab she was standing
on. In one corner, using a boy’s irreverent scrawl, James had etched his name
and a date.

She
counted back the years to Gabrielle Matthews’ disappearance.

“No,”
she said, feeling her stomach turn over once again. “Oh, no.”

Ben was taken into the interrogation room
against his will, handcuffed and belligerent, barely cooperating with walking.
A uniformed officer removed his cuffs and he sat down across from Special Agent
Grant, rubbing his wrists. “I did
not
agree to an interview.”

“I’ll
be doing most of the talking,” Grant said with a shrug. He was about ten years
older than Ben, but no less intimidating for it. Steely-eyed and svelte, he
radiated strength and authority.

Ben
hated him with a passion. “I want my lawyer.”

Ignoring
him, Grant pushed a few autopsy photos across the surface of the table.

Ben
refused to look.

“She
was such was a beautiful girl, before. Stayed over at your house a lot, I
heard.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I have three daughters
myself. Some of those slumber parties can get pretty wild.”

Ben
maintained his silence, knowing exactly where this was heading.

“Did
Lisette and your daughter have pillow fights, Mr. Fortune? Did they tickle each
other, play truth or dare, call boys on the phone? Did they sleep in their
panties, side by side in the same bed?”

“Fuck
you.”

“Carly’s
a lovely young woman,” Grant said, switching tactics. “Takes after her mother,
doesn’t she?”

Ben’s
spine stiffened. “My daughter is here?”

“In
interrogation room four, with my associate Special Agent Mitchell.”

Ben
studied Grant’s face avidly, marking spots where he’d like to land a few blows.
“What do you want?”

“I
want you to answer a few questions.”

Ben
glanced down at the autopsy photos, against his will. And saw nothing he ever
wanted to see again. “Let me talk to Carly,” he said, swallowing his bile.

“As
soon as we’re finished here,” Grant replied.

Ben
weighed his options. He felt confident that he could answer their questions
without incriminating himself. Carly, on the other hand…

“Fine,”
he said, agreeing to the interview. “But if I find out one of your no-neck
goons talked to my daughter without my permission, or harmed a single hair on
her head, I will bring a lawsuit down on you faster than you can blink.”

Grant
raised his hands, claiming innocence. “Of course, Mr. Fortune. We’re doing
everything according to procedure.”

Ben
laughed harshly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah? Did your special agent
fuck me according to procedure, or was she allowed to improvise?” Seeing anger
flare in Grant’s gray eyes, Ben leaned forward, enjoying a feeling of power he
knew would be fleeting. “Because if she was just following instructions, I
salute your training.” He made an okay sign with his thumb and forefinger. “She
was Class A. Top-notch.”

A
muscle in his jaw ticked, but Grant didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he
brought an evidence bag out from a drawer under the surface of the table. When
Ben saw what lay inside, his entire body went numb.

“Where
did you get that?” he asked. His voice sounded strange, far away.

“Do
you recognize it?”

Ben
couldn’t think of any reason to lie. “It was my wife’s. She never took it off.”

“Where
did you last see it?”

“On
her wrist,” he said, seized by a memory of Olivia raising her hand to her hair
and laughing, the bracelet twinkling in the sun. “The morning she died.”

Grant
stared back at him in silence.

“Lisette
had that?” he asked, feeling an absurd twist of anger. “I thought someone in
the coroner’s office lost it. I filed a report.”

“Tell
me about your relationship with Lisette.”

Ben
wanted to take the bracelet out of the bag and cup it in his hands, to close
his palm around the tiny metal disk and sink into the past. Instead, he had to
deal with Grant, who was holding the last remnant of his wife hostage and
asking stupid questions about Lisette.

Lisette,
who was gone forever, like Olivia.

“You
bastard,” he said without heat. “I didn’t have a relationship with Lisette.”

“She
was in your bed.”