The Perfect Husband (17 page)

“Bastard.”

“Yeah. Guess you can say you were right, J.T.”

He nodded but didn't actually say the words. He didn't have the heart to do that to her, not to proud Marion, who he would have sworn had actually loved Lieutenant Colonel Roger MacAllister. “I'm sorry, Marion,” he said softly. “I… When Rachel died… It's tough. I know it's tough.”

She was silent for a moment, then turned toward him. “I hate him, J.T. You can't imagine how much I hate him for betraying me.”

He wanted to reach over and take her hand. He was afraid if he did, she'd snap it off at the wrist. “You're better off,” he said, but the words sounded weak. “He wasn't strong enough for you, Marion. You need a real man, not some army bureaucrat. That's the lowest life-form imaginable.”

She returned to staring at the sky. “Maybe.”

“Have you filed for divorce?”

“I should. It would kill Daddy though. He's already furious with Roger and me for not having produced grandkids.”

J.T. read between the lines. Angry at her
and
Roger? He doubted it. He bet the good old colonel called Marion into his room on a regular basis and screamed that she was a bad wife, disobedient daughter, and an all-round failure as a woman for not giving birth. Yeah, Colonel was probably spitting mad at not having another life to ruin.

“Daddy's already dying, so I'd go ahead with the divorce. If it kills him a little faster, well, there are a whole host of people willing to pay you for that. Of course, I top the list, or I would if I had money. I've lost all that now.”

Her lips thinned disapprovingly, but for a change Marion didn't pursue the subject of the colonel.

“I think Angela is a fraud,” she said, abandoning traditional battlegrounds for new territory. “She lies through her teeth.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Why, J.T., I thought you hated liars. I thought your twisted moral code did not tolerate such behavior.”

He shrugged. “I'm getting old, Marion. The world is wearing me down.” He turned to look at the woman in question, her shoulders covered by old towels, and her eyes closed while her hair marinated. He remembered her pounding his chest with those tiny hands that now gripped the chair arms.

She was bright, she was proud, she was determined.

She'd shot her husband. He'd tried to beat her with a baseball bat.

“I want to know who she is,” he said. “Can you help me, Marion?”

There was a long, long silence. “What do you mean?” his sister asked carefully.

“I mean, of course she's lying and of course Angela's not her real name. Normally I wouldn't pursue the matter. It's bad for business. But now I want to know. I want to know who she is, who's her husband, and what the hell has he done.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes.”

“You're serious?”

“Yes.”

“I already started.”

“What?”

“I took her fingerprints,” Marion said calmly. “I faxed them in to be analyzed against the national database. It's already been twenty-four hours. Anytime now I should be getting a call telling me exactly who she is.”

His mouth opened and closed several times. He wanted to be angry but couldn't pull off the emotion. When he'd agreed to let his sister stay, had he really thought she would do anything less? Proud, ambitious, driven Marion?

And he wanted to know the answer.

“You'll tell me what you learn,” he commanded quietly, “and no one else. If she has done something, Marion, if she is in trouble, you won't handle it—”

“Like hell. I am a federal agent—”

“No! You're my sister. You're here as my sister and that's what I want you to be. Five more days, Marion, is that asking too much? Five days, please just be my sister. I don't mind so much being your brother. I'll try not to embarrass you.”

She was silent. Stunned. He could feel it. For once, cool Marion wasn't so composed. “All right,” she said, and seemed as shocked as he was by her answer. “I'll tell you what I find, J.T. And it's up to you to deal with it. For five days.”

“Thank you. I mean, honestly, thank you.”

The sliding door opened. Angela appeared on the patio, looking self-conscious. Her hair had been rinsed and blown dry, though it still looked a little damp around the edges. She raked one hand through the short strands, then knotted her hands in front of her. “Well? What do you think?”

She looked beautiful. The fading sun sparked the rich brown color, giving it fire. Her face looked pale and lovely, her eyes endlessly deep. He thought she looked nothing like the woman she'd been just hours before.

And that scared him.

He said, “It suits you.”

“That's what a disguise is supposed to do, right? Suit you.”

“You do learn fast.”

“I do,” she assured him. “So don't worry about me and my little outbursts, J.T. I will get tough. And I'm going to learn how to shoot that gun!”

Marion shook her head. “You'll be sorry, J.T.,” she murmured under her breath. “You'll be sorry.”

DINNER ON THE patio was a silent affair. J.T. grilled swordfish. Angela and Marion consumed it without comment. As soon as the last bite was taken, Angela rose, cleared the table, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Marion lit a cigarette. J.T. stared at all the stars and wished his throat didn't feel so dry. He could feel sweat bead his upper lip, his shoulders, his arms. He told himself it was the heat, but he was lying. He wanted a beer. He was staring at Marion's and coveting it like a man lost in the desert.

Find the zone, he told himself. Use the zone.

But the phone rang and jarred him back out.

Marion looked at him for one moment, then got up to answer it. He sat there alone with the crickets, his gaze still locked on her beer.

Just one sip, maybe two.

You gave your word.

Ah, Christ, it's just a beer. What's so criminal about a man having a beer? Men shouldn't listen to women anyway, it only gets them into trouble.

You will not be an alcoholic.

Having a beer after dinner is not alcoholism, it's enjoying a beer. Just one. I drank all the time in the service, we all did. And could we perform? We always performed. It helps take off the edge. Christ, I want to take off the edge.

Find the zone.

Fuck you, J.T. You know you're a liar, you know there's no real zone. Only time you find it is when you're in battle, and rifle shots crack the air and adrenaline buzzes in your ear. The only time you're calm, you're centered, you're at peace, is when someone's trying to kill you. And that's just plain twisted.

His hand reached out on its own. His fingers curled around the base of the cold, wet bottle.

God, he was so thirsty. His fingers were trembling. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted.

The sliding glass door slammed back and he leapt guiltily, stuffing his hand beneath his thigh.

Marion stood on the patio with the lights golden around her. The picture shook him back to other times. Marion standing at the foot of his bed in her long white nightgown, her blond hair cascading down her back, her hands twisting in front of her. Marion begging him to save her, while the colonel pounded at his locked door and demanded his children let him in.

J.T. searching for a place to hide his sister. The colonel taking the door off its hinges.

He bit his lower lip to contain the memories.

She took a step forward, then another. Slowly her face became visible. She was uncommonly pale.

“Angela isn't in the kitchen,” she whispered. “She isn't anywhere in the house.”

J.T. nodded dumbly.

“That was the Information Division. I know who she is, J.T. And, my God, I think I may have screwed up. I may have really, really screwed up.”

LIEUTENANT LANCE DIFFORD was getting old. He was unbearably conscious of it these days. His hair had thinned considerably; it was harder to get up in the mornings. Coffee was starting to hurt his stomach and he was actually contemplating giving up doughnuts and prime rib.

Now the weather was getting colder and yeah, his insomnia was growing worse.

He wasn't actually that old — fifty was hardly one step away from the grave in this day and age. He'd never planned on leaving the force until he was sixty. He was a good lieutenant, a decent cop, a respected man. Once, he'd thought he'd spend his days investigating death, helping the Hampden County DA prosecute homicides, and eventually retire to Florida to visit baseball's spring training camps.

Then a girl was found outside of Ipswich, her head beaten in and her own nylons wrapped around her neck. Eight months later they had another girl in Clinton and calls from the DA in Vermont wanting to compare their crime scenes with homicides from Middlebury and Bennington.

Virtually overnight Difford went from low-key police work to one of the highest-profiled cases Massachusetts had ever seen. At the end he could summon unbelievable amounts of manpower just by snapping his fingers, from county resources to state resources to the FBI. Everyone wanted to help catch the man who'd probably killed four women in three states. Except then it became five women, then six women, then ten.

Difford had aged a lot those days. Six task forces operating around the clock and the most manpower logged on a single investigation in the state's history.

What we have here, boys, is the worst serial killer New England has seen since Albert DeSalvo in '67. And you know how many mistakes he's made? Zero.

Special Agent Quincy had them staking out grave sites and memorial services without avail. They'd arranged with columnists to profile the victims, keeping their names and tragedy fresh in the public mind. Maybe the guy would contact a loved one to brag. Maybe the guy was actually the bartender at the local police hangout, pumping officers for details. They'd executed the case like a textbook study, and still more blond daughters/wives/mothers went out for a drive and never came home.

Then one night Difford had gotten the phone call, not on the hotline but at home. The woman's voice had been so muffled, he could barely discern her words.

“I think I know who you're looking for,” she whispered without preamble. Difford had the image of a woman crouched in a closet, her hand cupping her mouth, her shoulders hunched in fear.

“Ma'am?”

“Is it true it's a blunt wooden object? Could it be a baseball bat?”

Difford gripped the phone tighter. “That could be, ma'am,” he said carefully. “Would you like to make a statement? Could you come to the station?”

“No. No, no, absolutely not. He'd kill me. I know it.” Her voice rose an octave before she cut it off. Difford listened to her deep, steadying breaths as she tried to pull herself together. “I know who it is,” she said. “It's the only explanation. The bats, his temper, all the unexplained hours… The look I sometimes see in his eye. I just didn't want to believe—” Her voice broke. “Promise me you'll protect my daughter. Please promise me that. Then I'll give you anything.”

“Ma'am?”

“This man, this killer you're looking for — he's one of you.”

Difford felt the chill shudder up his spine, and he knew then that they had him. The Hampden County DA had become involved in the case at the request of the Berkshire County DA — the minute the Berkshire County team began to suspect a Berkshire County cop might be involved.

The next morning Difford arranged with the Berkshire County DA to keep Officer Jim Beckett busy that afternoon. Then Difford paid a visit to Beckett's wife.

Difford liked Theresa Beckett. He didn't know why. He'd been prepared to hate her, to think nothing of her. If her accusation was true, then she was the Bride of Frankenstein. What kind of woman married a killer? What kind of police force gave him a job?

Maybe it was the way Theresa sat across from them, so young and scared, but still answering their questions one by one. Maybe it was the way she cradled her two-year-old daughter against her neck when the baby cried, rocking her gently and whispering over and over again that everything would be all right. Maybe it was the way she handed over her life to them. Every small, tortured detail, with her whole face telling them she would do the right thing, she needed to do the right thing.

They stripped her bare that first week. They met with her at prearranged locations every afternoon and dissected her marriage. How long had she known Beckett? Where did he come from? What did she know of his family? What was he like as a husband, a father? Was he violent? Did he ever try to choke her? What about sex? How often? What kinds of positions? Any S&M, choking, sodomy? Hard-core pornography?

And she answered. Sometimes she couldn't look them in the eye. Sometimes tears silently streaked down her cheek, but she gave them everything they asked for and then she gave them even more. She'd kept logs of his car odometer for six months. She'd noted what time he left for work, what time he came home, and listed any inexplicable scratches or bruises on his body.

She told them that Jim Beckett actually wore a wig. Shortly after their marriage he'd shaved his head, his chest, his arms, his legs, his pubic hair, everything. The man was completely hairless, like a marble sculpture. The kind of perp that would leave no hair samples behind at the crime scene.

She told them he was cold, arrogant, and without remorse. The kind of man who would poison the neighbor's dog because he objected to a Pekingese shitting on his lawn. She told them he was relentless, the husband who always got his way. The kind of person who knew instinctively how to make people suffer without even raising his fist.

And each afternoon when they tucked their notebooks away, they told her they needed more conclusive information before they could move against Officer Beckett, and they left her to face her husband alone for another evening.

By the seventh day, they thought they had enough, but apparently so did Beckett. They never figured out who leaked what, but he walked into a sandwich shop on his lunch hour, tailed by two agents, and never came back out. That simply he dropped off the face of the earth.

They moved in force.