Lie in Wait (3 page)

North shone his flashlight down the cellar stairway. A soft thumping came from the darkness, like the muted beat of a heart hidden beneath floorboards.

Thud. Thud thud.

North ducked his head and started down the stairs. Test placed her foot on the step gingerly, her heart knocking. As a young girl, she'd had an irrational fear of cellars. When her father would send her to their basement at night to retrieve a bottle of wine, she'd descend the stairs with a sense that someone, or something, was down there, lurking in the dark recesses, waiting to snatch her. She'd hurry down, search wildly for the bottle lying in its rack, then race back, certain she'd be grabbed before she got to the top stair. She'd outgrown the fear, of course. Now, however, it did not seem so irrational after all.

Thud. Thud thud.

At the bottom of the steps, North paused. From the cellar rose a bodily stench that polluted the nostrils and caught in the back of Sonja's throat. She felt overheated even as her skin felt clammy. Her excitement fled in a rush.

She placed a palm flat to an old beam, steadying herself. “Breathe,” she whispered quietly, so North would not hear. “Breathe.”

North turned as though he'd heard her. Rumor had it North was astute at sensing mood, could peg a person's true nature quickly. A quality trait in a detective, and one Test hoped to hone for herself.

North shone his flashlight at the floor and crouched. The ME's klieg lights were off, the skeletal metal legs of the several tripods looking alien. Why was North using just a flashlight? Test could barely see her own hands.

Thud.

North pointed. “See that?”

Test leaned over his shoulder, got a whiff of aftershave that reminded her of the hunk of cedar wood Claude put in his drawer. “No,” she said.

“There.” He pointed again.

“Yes,” she said. She saw: The ghost of a boot print in the dirt on the stone floor. An evidence card marked
#1
sat beside the print.

“Could be our man,” North said.

Thud.

“What is that noise?” Test said.

North ignored her and trained the flashlight just ahead of the boot print.

“There,” he said.

“Where?” Test said.

He pointed.

The delicate impression of a small bare foot. It, too, was marked with an evidence card:
#2
. A score of such cards pocked the way to the darkened corner.

North stepped off the bottom stair, avoiding the marked footprints. Slowly, he made his way past numerous cards, past the washer and dryer, until he almost disappeared in the darkness.

Thud.

The sound was coming from the dryer. Something thudding in it as it went around and around. What on earth was in there? Why had the detective left the dryer running?

Test picked her way toward North, squatted beside him.

The beam of his flashlight jabbed into the corner's crowding darkness.

“Why aren't the klieg lights on?” Test asked. She'd kept quiet as long as she had because she feared there was some obvious answer she could not comprehend and she'd look the fool for asking.

“This is how it was when I arrived,” North said. “Just the light of that weak bulb.”

Of course. He wanted to see it as it had been at the time of the murder.

Test's eyes followed the beam that cut through the darkness.

“No sign of a struggle,” Test said.

North did not reply.

“What the hell is thudding in the dryer?” Test asked, unable to hold back.

“A pair of running shoes. Among men's clothes. Jon Merryfield says they're his shoes. He said it was like the girl to go overboard with chores, even though she was told not to concern herself with things other than child care. The machine has about ten minutes left. We found it with sixty-­two minutes left, when we arrived at seven thirty. So, unless the killer decided to do laundry, if the dryer was set at the maximum ninety minutes, the victim was killed no earlier than six fifty.”

The victim. Jessica Cumber. North's cold use of the term “the victim” unnerved her.

“See that,” North said. “There.”

She saw.

A foot. The pale soft foot of Jessica Cumber, the heel grimy with dirt.

A child's foot.

The other foot was not visible.

North worked the flashlight up, following a leg clad in jeans.

The other leg was bent beneath the body at a peculiar angle.

As North stood, his back cracked audibly.

He inched closer to Jessica Cumber. Test followed.

Jessica Cumber lay with her face against the grimy stone floor. An arm, like her leg, torqued beneath her body, so the shoulder looked dislocated. Test felt her own shoulder twitch.

“This is how we found her,” North said. “Or close to it. We tried to put her back as she'd been when her photos were taken, and before the ME and I looked her and the surroundings over.”

Jessica's hair was a pale strawberry blonde, cut at the nape of her neck. In her tiny earlobes were stuck simple silver stud earrings in the shapes of stars. The kind of earrings one found on assortment placards on turnstiles at every Rite Aid and Walmart.

North held the flashlight out to Test. “Keep it on her.”

The flashlight was heavy. Its hatch-­marked steel handle cold.

Test held it so the light shone on the back of Jessica's head.

North touched Jessica's shoulder gently, as if he intended to wake the child. Then, he took firm hold of the shoulder and turned Jessica over with a great show of courtesy and humility. Jessica rolled over like a log in water.

Test's throat clenched. She thought she'd prepared herself. But no one could be prepared for this. Test's world swam. At the academy five years prior, it had been pounded home for cadets to keep emotions in check, go numb to the violence. But they never told her
how
to go numb.

“Keep the light on her face,” North said, curt. Test lifted the flashlight. She'd let it fall in her shock. Her mouth tasted metallic. Her throat burned. Dots of silver light glimmered in her vision.

“Sorry,” she managed to whisper.

“It's OK.”

Test had not been speaking to North. She'd been speaking to Jessica. She was sorry for her. Sorry that sorry changed nothing.

Jessica's forehead was obliterated. A gaping wreck of skull from which brain and a swamp of blood soaked the floor, turning it oily. Her face was no longer a girl's face but a bloated macabre caricature. Her eyes stared out at oblivion, fogged with death.

One blow. A heap of rage.

“Whoever did this despised Jessica,” Test said.

“That's a leap.” North grabbed the flashlight from Test, startling her. “There's no damned murder weapon,” he said, swinging the flashlight to light dark crevices. He stood.

Test remained crouched. She touched Jessica's blood-­splattered cheek, the girl's flesh like cold clay.

Not a girl anymore.

A body.

A corpse.

“Come on,” North said. “Let's get the fuck out of this hellhole.”

 

Chapter 5

“
Y
OU SAY YOU
saw a boy as you were pulling up?” North said. He stood in the Merryfields' kitchen leaning against the slate countertop, the edge pressed against the small of his back as if he were trying to relieve pain. Test noted his belt dug into his bony waist, and wondered again if he was ill. He poised a pencil above his notebook.

Test pulled out her recorder, checking her iPhone quickly as she did to see if she'd missed a text or call from Claude. She had not. She worried about the icy roads.

“Yes. A boy. Sneaking out,” Jon Merryfield said and wiped his face. Sweat glistened on his broad forehead below his thick, dark hairline. The man looked washed out. Test did not feel so flush herself. Her fingertips still thrummed from the jolt of seeing Jessica. Jon Merryfield's wife stood a few feet from Jon, cuddling her swaddled sleeping baby against her chest. Her cheeks were muddied with runny mascara, her eyes foamed pink and swollen from crying.

“Could it have been a man?” Test said.

Jon looked taken aback, but gave it thought. “I suppose,” he said.

“Or a girl?” Test said.

North cut her a look. Hers was not to ask, but to observe, listen. Follow.

“It was a male,” Jon said. His eyes flashed at Test. “I assumed it was the boy Bethany had seen previously.”

“What time did you get home?” North said.

“Seven fifteen, seven twenty,” Bethany said. “Somewhere in there.”

“Can you be any more precise?” Test asked.

“No,” Bethany said, curtly. “We left early. About halfway through. Jon's been sick and the food was too rich. After he used the bathroom, we left. While I waited, I glanced at my cell phone to check messages and saw it was just after seven. It struck me because we'd told the sitter—­” She paused and took a breath. “We'd told Jessica we'd be out till at least eight.”

“What—­” Test began, but North cut her off.

“Tell me about this boy you saw,” North said, asking what Test had been about to ask.

“I'd seen him about a month back,” Bethany said. “He left out the same door Jon saw him—­the person—­leave from tonight. I had spoken to Jessica about him.”

“Who was he?”

“She wouldn't say.”

“But you saw him clearly that time, to know for certain it was a boy?” Test said.

Bethany Merryfield smoothed a hand along the back of her neck. “Not exactly. I saw someone leave with a hoodie on, you know, like kids wear, so—­”

“You assumed,” Test said.

“So, you can't say for absolute certain?” North said.

“I guess not but—­” Bethany began.

“I—­” Test started, and again was stymied.

“Did the girl admit to having someone here that first time?” North said.

“Yes,” Bethany said.

“But she gave no name?” North said.

“No. And I didn't ask.”

“So this boy, or this man. Tonight. What was he wearing?” Test asked and caught a disapproving shake of the head by North.

“Tonight?” Jon said. “A dark jacket.”

“So. Not a hoodie,” Test said.

“Not that I saw. And jeans, maybe. Darker pants anyway. I guess jeans. A ball cap. I told this to Detective North already. He's asked these things.”

“Color?” Test said.

“Black, maybe blue.”

“Which?” Test said.

“I don't know. Dark.”

Merryfield, Test noted, was vague when pressed for clarity.

“You see his face?” Test said.

“No. As I said earlier.”

“So you don't really know what color it was, his ball cap?” Test said.

“Dark,” Jon said.

“Do you have any idea at all who this male might be?” Test asked.

Jon shook his head.

“I wish I'd asked her his name,” Bethany said. She closed her eyes as if to shut the light off on a memory and leave it in the dark, unseen, less dangerous; then cooed in her baby's ear, shifting from foot to foot to rock her child.

“Why would someone kill a girl in your house?” Test said. It came out sounding accusatory. She'd not intended it to be. The Merryfields trained their eyes on her. North watched her too. “I mean. If someone had it in for her, this mysterious boyfriend, say, why would he do it here?” Test said.

“How could we possibly know that?” Bethany snapped.

“Do you lock your door?” Test said.

“This is Vermont. Do
you
?” Bethany said, challenging.

There it was again, the defensive attitude. “Actually, yes,” Test said, though it wasn't true and she had no idea why she said so. To be contrary. To keep Bethany under pressure.

“Well. You're a police officer.” Bethany shifted her baby to her shoulder. “Of course you keep your house locked.”

“Detective,” Test corrected. “I'm a detective.” She felt a bit like a PhD insisting she be called
Doctor
, but being called an officer felt like a Green Beret being called a Cub Scout. “Your husband is the most controversial man in the state. He's—­”

Bethany tossed her head back sharply to flip the bangs out of her eyes and fixed Test with a heartless gaze. “So we're supposed to know our babysitter is going to be—­”

“Your husband is
hated
,” Test said.

“That's enough, officer, thank you,” North said and held up a palm to warn her. He addressed Bethany Merryfield. “We don't even know if who you saw leaving did anything.”

“Of course he did,” Bethany sniped.

“Perhaps he fled because he was in danger himself,” North said. “Or he'd come to visit her and not found her. Or found her and got scared.”

“We're not blaming you,” Test said.

North shot her a look:
Zip it. Or else.

“I should hope not,” Bethany said.

“Did you get threats?” North said, asking what Test would have asked next.

“It comes with the territory,” Jon said.

“I warned Jon that we would.” Bethany's face pinched as she switched her baby from one shoulder to the other.

Test tried to see out the window behind Bethany, to her car. She couldn't. What had she been thinking, bringing her kids here, leaving them alone in the car? If another mother had left kids George and Elizabeth's ages in a car this long in a store lot, the mother would be charged with neglect. Test wondered if Larkin was even out there anymore. Certainly he wouldn't leave without telling Test, if he were relieved of his post. Would he? And why had Claude not called?

“Did you take the threats seriously?” North said.

“Of course,” Bethany said.

“Not this seriously.” Jon worked his jaw, not in the manner of someone angered, but someone trying to relieve the pressure of a heinous headache. His pallor was that of left-­over oatmeal, and Test was worried he might vomit.

“Why didn't the threats concern you?” Test said. She would not be muzzled. North had no official authority over her. She would ask those questions she believed pertinent. And she would get answers. Let North go to Barrons, her chief, if he took issue.

“You get so many threats, you become immune. It becomes white noise,” Jon said, authority coming into his voice as he squared his broad shoulders.

“Maybe
you
do,” Bethany said icily, her stare lacerating.

“A threat against me,” Jon said. “I can handle. Myself. But, this. You think this has to do with the case?”

“What do you think?” Test said.

“We don't
know
what to think,” Bethany said. “You make it sound like—­”

“I'm not making it sound like anything, ma'am. I need to ask uncomfortable questions. I won't apologize. Now. What's your best
educated
guess? Because it either has to do with the case or it has to do with something else. Is there anything else in your lives, your marriage, that—­”

“He killed the
girl
,” Bethany said. “What can she have to do with our marriage?” She stared, tight-­lipped, eyes slits, and Test caught the whiff of the privileged class; not of a person who had married into it, but a person born to it, oblivious lifelong to her innate condescension.

Test suddenly felt exhausted and wanted dearly to check on her kids and get them home. Whichever way she sliced it, her kids' well-­being was her priority, whether it was convenient to her profession or not. But she couldn't tend to them now. Just. Couldn't. It would undermine all her standing. If North even suspected her kids were out in her car and she was distracted by that choice . . . she hated to think of his reaction. She hoped George and Elizabeth had fallen asleep. She hoped they were not terrified. She had no clue how long she'd been in the house or how much longer she would be in here. Claude had not shown up yet, otherwise a text would have come. Her face had the pasty feel that meant her makeup was melting, revealing her freckles.

“These threats,” North said. “Were they e-­mails, phone messages, in the mail?”

“Mostly phone,” Jon said. “Ninety-­nine percent of it you disregard as crackpots.”

“And the other one percent?” Test said.

“You worry,” Bethany said. “I worry. I worry about most of them.”

“Do you save the messages?” Test said.

“Some,” Jon said. “I delete them after a while.”

“I told you, you should have saved them all,” Bethany said. “I told him to report them. He wouldn't listen. Some of the messages, they were so vile and—­”

“Enough,” Jon said.

The baby mewled and Bethany slung him gently over her shoulder and rubbed his back. “Shhh. Shhh.” The baby was as calm as any Test had seen; certainly calmer than George and Elizabeth had ever been at that age, the two fussbudgets.
Calm
was not a word Test associated with colicky George and motor-­baby Elizabeth.

“We'll need to listen to any messages you have,” Test said. “Don't erase them.”

“Right,” Jon said. “I'll leave what's there.”

“What about the boy?” Bethany said, addressing North and ignoring Test. “He must—­”

“We'll find him,” North said. “You two take a load off. Your house is going to be crawling with forensics geeks for a spell yet. Don't touch anything and try to think of anything you can about the boy, and about Jessica. Rest.”

“We'll have to take your fingerprints,” Test said.

“Fingerprints?” Bethany protested. “Why on earth?”

“To compare our prints against ones foreign to the house,” Jon said.

“It can wait,” North said and jerked a thumb at Test. “Let's go.”

Jon and Bethany left the kitchen, Jon slipping his hand around his wife's torso, his wife, Test noted, slipping out of it as if by second nature.

North cocked an eyebrow at Test. “You certainly keep the pressure on. What do you think?”

His question surprised her. She'd expected a drubbing. “There's a few possibilities,” Test said. “One: The boy, if it is a boy, and if it is the same boy, or man, who was here before, killed Jessica out of jealousy or rage for a reason that has nothing to do with the case.” Test knew a sick mind concocted reasons the general populous could never understand, but that were entirely rational and logical to the perp. “The blow to her forehead means she either knew the attacker or she did not have time to realize the danger, simply turned around and . . . Two: The boy did it for someone, to send a warning to Jon about his involvement in the gay marriage case.”

“A local kid hired to do a hit with a hammer or a pipe?”

“If it was a boy. And if he was local.”

“I don't buy number two.”

“Third . . . maybe the boy—­”

“—­or man.”

“Or man. Did it as his own warning to Merryfield being involved in the case.”

“Kill the babysitter? Why?”

Test said, mockingly, “How could I possibly know that?”

“Watch it, Officer.”

“Detective,” Test said.

“If it was planned in advance, whoever planned it knew somehow the Merryfields would be out tonight.” He tapped his pencil against his chin. “I've got to get with forensics.”

Test wanted to go with him to get apprised, but she couldn't bear not knowing what state her kids were in and needed to try to reach Claude.

“I'd like to get crime-­scene photos sent to my e-­mail, and whatever notes you have from before I arrived here,” Test said. She handed North her card and he walked off toward a state police forensics expert without a reply.

Peeling off her surgical gloves, and tearing off her hairnet and the mask hanging about her neck, Test hurried out of the house past the two forensics personnel now lifting prints from the stair railings leading up to the second floor.

Officer Larkin was not on the porch.

Test could not see her car; a news van had pulled in and blocked it from view. Test yanked off her booties and jogged toward the van, where reporters camped.

A reporter tried to shove a microphone at her, but an officer who wasn't Larkin strode between Test and the reporter. “Keep back, back behind the tape. You know the drill,” he said.

Test came around the other side of the van and stopped dead.

Her car was gone.

She looked around madly, trying to see over and around the crowd milling about her. What did these fools want to see? What did they think this was, a sporting event? Test shoved a man to get by and broke out onto the road. She spun around, taking in the scene, the ­people and cars and lights and cameras jammed at every odd angle along the street.

Then, she saw it.

The car was parked farther down the street, under a street lamp. Officer Larkin was leaning against the front fender, arms folded across his chest as he ate a licorice whip. He spotted Test working over to him and must have sensed her panic and realized his error.