Never Alone (15 page)

twenty-five

The phone rang as
Megan prepared her best Dr. Hannibal Lecter impersonation. She was hoping the noise of the Park Avenue traffic wouldn't drown out her voice.

“Clarice Snowden,” the woman answered.

“Good evening, Clarice, have the lambs stopped screaming?” She followed it with a sinister laugh.

“You know the next time I see you you're going to owe me money for that comment, right?” Clarice Snowden worked in the CITU, the Computer Investigations Technical Unit. She spent her days monitoring bank accounts of millionaires, identifying pyramid schemes, anything with a financial edge that could be considered a felony using a computer.

“What do you charge now for
Silence of the Lambs
jokes?”

“One dollar, but since you added that bad laugh, I'm charging you two. Bring cash the next time you visit my office.”

“Which brings me to the reason for my call,” Megan said.

“Anything for you, my dear.”

“Can I come in really early tomorrow morning to drop a laptop off to you? I think it could be important.”

“You know I'm here by six.”

“Well, I won't be there
that
early.”

“I'll see you when you get here, and bring two dollars.”

Megan made the fast, slurping-type sound that Hannibal
Lecter made to Clarice Starling in the movie after he told her about eating one of his victim's liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti.

“I just bumped you up to three dollars.”

“See you tomorrow.” Megan grinned as she hung up.

_____

Megan had better odds of winning the lottery than getting a full night's sleep that evening. Every hour on the hour, she double-checked the bolt on the door, even though she knew she'd locked it immediately upon arriving home. The few moments of sleep she was able to get were plagued by nightmares. The image of her swimming laps and then a man's hand holding her head down underwater awakened her more than once. After the third nightmare, it became futile to attempt more sleep. She got up, made some coffee, and sat curled up on the couch staring at the text she'd received.

How was your swim?

She was angry with herself for feeling scared during the night. Fear of anything besides commitment didn't sit well with Megan. It was more comfortable for her to replace fear with anger, which she did well.

“You sick fuck. What are you up to?” she whispered.

_____

Megan hadn't planned on getting to Clarice Snowden's office so early—neither had Clarice, based on the shocked look on her face when Megan walked in—but the four walls of her apartment felt like they were closing in on her, so she decided to go see her old friend, who hopefully could help her.

Clarice Snowden was a stylish woman of a certain age. The
thing was, no one ever knew Clarice's real age, and no one would ever hear it from Clarice. She had smooth brown skin and was a total fashionista. She had the latest bag, hairdo, and wardrobe. She originally came from Charleston, South Carolina, and had been living in New York for over fifteen years, but she never lost that soft Southern lilt in her voice. She'd just recently signed off on her second divorce. Marriage for Clarice was like a pair of new shoes that just wouldn't give, no matter how often or how long you wore them; it always felt too snug. Megan and Clarice had met at an
NYPD holiday party three years earlier and had hit it off immedi
ately.

When Megan entered her office, she adjusted her leopard-
print eyeglass frames and said, “Do my eyes deceive me or is this Detective Megan McGinn in person? And before seven o'clock?”

“Good morning, Miss Clarice.”

“Not one more step until you pay up, sister.”

Megan slipped three dollars into a jar with the label “Pay Up If You Didn't Shut Up” for all the
Silence of the Lambs
jokes she'd heard over the years.

“Now, Ms. Snowden, where is all my hard-earned money going this week?”

“Next week's mani-pedi. If you say it a few more times, I can throw in an eyebrow wax.”

“I like how you work.” Megan took a seat, placing the laptop on the corner of Clarice's desk.

“That, I assume, is for me.” Clarice took the laptop out of the
bag.

“Yep. Whatever you can find. I have no idea what's in there, but my gut says to check it out.
Computer Crimes Squad has the victim's desktop, but we're waiting on them and I doubt they're going to find anything anyway.”

“Those guys are busy night and day with child predators and porn sites.”

“I very much appreciate this, my friend.”

“It's the least I can do after you set me up on that incredible blind date last month.”

“Hey, how's that going?” Megan asked.

“Very well.” Dating the wrong men stopped being Clarice's
problem after her second divorce. She juggled, on average, three men at a time. The latest addition was a man Megan had met in Tribeca. He owned the restaurant she was eating in and they struck up a conversation, which was when Megan decided to play matchmaker. Right now Clarice was seeing the restaurant owner, a doctor on the verge of retiring—a plastic surgeon, no less—and a professor of African-American studies who had a faint resemblance to Sidney Poitier, handsome as hell.

“Clarice, how do you do it? Juggle all these men?” Megan asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Doesn't it get confusing after a while?”

She looked at Megan like she was crazy. “Sweetie, listen, learn, live it: men do this all the time. They juggle women—hey, once in a while they throw a man in the mix, too! I'm just enjoying my piece of the pie before I don't have teeth anymore to chew with.”

“You are one in a million, Clarice. One in a million.”

“I know it. By the way, when are you coming over for Sunday dinner again? Your scrawny pale body could use some food.”

“Everyone wants to feed me these days. I could get used to it.”

Six months earlier Megan went to Sunday service with Clarice and her family when they came for a visit. Megan had the spirit move her and she must have gained five pounds from the dinner Clarice's mother cooked that day: Southern-fried chicken smothered with gravy, ribs, potato salad, greens, corn bread, peach cobbler, and the best iced tea she'd ever drank in her life.

“Oh, how I remember those ribs to this day. The meat just fell right off the bone. That meal was better than sex,” Megan said wistfully.

Clarice lifted her glasses. “Darlin', you're dating the wrong men.
Talk to me. You didn't come over to listen to me gossip about my
men.”

“No, I came over to check out your new Coach bag.” Megan noticed the new camel-skin tote on the chair next to Clarice's desk. She lifted it up with two fingers.

“Some women go for younger men … I go for older and richer.”

Clarice's men doted on her, and she was worth every penny.

“Damn, you should teach seminars. Unfortunately, I can't stay long. My partner is picking me up in a while. We have to head out to Connecticut on business. I promise, next time a longer visit.”

“I'll start on this and let you know what I find. Before you go, do I need to ask about a subpoena? Or are we …?”

“Yes, we're fast-tracking this. Keep it on the down-low. If you find anything of relevance, I'll go back and get the paperwork.”

“That's all I needed to know.”

“Thank you. Seriously, I really appreciate this.” Megan got up to leave, but not before Clarice got one more question in.

“Hey, sister. How are you holding up?”

Clarice lost her father a year earlier to lung cancer. She understood Megan's loss quite well.

“One day at a time. One motherfucking day at a time.”

Clarice nodded solemnly. “Stay strong, sweets.”

_____

Megan got back to her apartment before Nappa arrived, and was able to kick back a glass of orange juice and a piece of toast before he called to say he was downstairs waiting for her. “I'll be down in
a minute.” She ran into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and
popped her daily birth control pill. Given she was up most of the night, it hadn't felt like a new day and she'd nearly forgotten to take it. She threw back the small white pill and her mind went instantly to Shannon.

Nappa was waiting on the corner of Lexington. Megan jumped in the passenger side of the car, but before shutting the door, she asked, “Can I drive?”

He peeled out into the street before laying into Megan. “I have one pretty fucking interesting question to ask you.”

Megan furled her eyebrows and gave Nappa back the same amount of attitude. “What's wrong with you?”

“Just the fact that my
partner
doesn't trust me enough to tell me that she received a phone call from the victim's cell phone.”

Megan cringed at her faux pas, remembering that call would be listed on Shannon's phone records. She held her palms up. “Wait a minute. Just wait a minute. I was going to tell you the—”

“You were going to tell me? Bullshit!”

Megan was more accustomed to using expletives than hearing them from Nappa. “First of all, yes. Yes, I was going to tell you when you were over at my house, but then you gave me the whole are-you-up-for-this-case-or-not ball-of-shit discussion. If I'd told you I was worried, you'd have pussyfooted it back to Walker and had me taken off the case.”

Nappa ran a red light. “Have I ever—have I
ever
—shown you that that is the kind of cop, or for that matter the kind of man, I am? Have I? Answer the goddamn question!”

Megan held on to the dashboard. “Slow the fucking car down. We're going to Connecticut, not the fucking moon.” Megan took a deep breath. “No. That was wrong. I didn't think it through. I was a little rattled for one thing.”

It was time for Nappa to gain back his composure. “Rattled. Why? What happened?”

“Remember I told you that I'd gone to the gym before you came over? I tried to get a swim in.”

“Yeah, and?”

“When I got home, my phone beeped. It wasn't a call; it was a
text.”

“From our victim's phone.”

“Yeah.” Megan's voice quieted. “The text read, ‘How was your swim?'”

Nappa pulled the car over. Any anger rifling through his body moments before now turned to deep concern. “Jesus, Megan.”

Nappa never called her by her first name. It felt odd for her to hear it now. “Yeah, I know.” She pointed toward the road. “C'mon, start driving. We don't want to hit traffic.” He did as she requested, and they both sat in silence for the next few minutes. “Nappa, I know I fought being on this case, but I don't want off it now.”

Nappa stared up at the red traffic light. “I know. I know.” He started shaking his head. “McGinn, this takes things up to a whole
different level. You keep everything straight with me, and we'll
both watch your back. Got it?”

“Got it.” She stared out the window, thinking of the wrong turn
she'd made by not telling Nappa. “I should have told you. I'm
sorry.”

He released a heavy sigh. “Yeah, no shit.”

Megan dialed Rasmussen. “Anything on the ring, any hits?” She motioned Nappa to drive faster. “As soon as you get anything, call me.” She was about to hang up, not realizing Rasmussen was about to give her other information, but it turned out to be no information at all.
“I wasn't expecting anything to be found, but thanks anyway. Have Palumbo put some pressure on the lab regarding the cross.” She ran her hands through her hair. “No prints on the sewing kit.”

After a while the vibe in the car between the two detectives returned to normal. Megan remembered what she was going to ask Nappa before their argument began. “Nappa, do you remember if any birth control was found in McAllister's apartment?”

“Birth control?”

“Yeah. Anything—pills, condoms, a diaphragm?”

Nappa needed a moment to think about Megan's question.
“There were two expired prescription bottles in the trash, and I think a bottle of ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet.”

Megan stared out onto the Manhattan streets. They were fi
nally making some headway moving crosstown.

“Why do you ask?” he asked.

“Most women keep their birth control in their bathroom or bedroom. She didn't have any. Her medicine cabinet looked as though it had been gone through.”

“How can you tell? There was barely anything in it.”

“Exactly. What human being has a nearly empty medicine cabinet? What if the killer took her birth control?”

“Why would he do that?”

“
Shannon M. You've Been Returned.
He didn't give her a one-way ticket to the Bahamas. He killed her. He sent her to heaven—
at least that's where I'm assuming she ended up, not to get all
philosophical or anything.”

“Please, it's going to be a long drive if you get philosophical.”

“Seriously, think about it. We knew she was having sex. I don't know many women, well, at least in their thirties, who don't use
some
kind of birth control. She wasn't using a diaphragm. Sutherland would have found it.”