The Switch (8 page)

"Hi, Gillian."

She gasped, "What are you doing here?"

She recognized him! She knew him now. She knew his face. And he gloried in the certainty that it was the last face she would ever see.

CHAPTER 6

"
Ms. Melina Lloyd?"

Roused from a deep sleep, she had thrown back the covers, grabbed a robe, and stumbled from the bedroom, making her way to the front door on autopilot, intent on answering the doorbell if for no other reason than to stop the incessant ringing.

Groggy and muddle-headed, it took several seconds for her to register that this wasn't the extension of a dream, that she was indeed awake, standing upright, and facing a pair of uniformed Dallas policemen. In her bleary peripheral vision, she saw their squad car parked in the driveway.

"Ms. Lloyd?"

She pushed a hank of hair off her face. "Yes. I'm sorry, I was ... What do you want?"

"I'm Corporal Lewis, this is Corporal Caltrane."

"Is something wrong?"

"May we come in?"

In that instant she was jarred fully awake. Because policemen didn't come to someone's door this early in the morning to sell tickets to their charity ball. If the house were on fire, or a whacked-out sniper had the neighborhood under siege, or any number of other emergencies, the light bar on their car would be flashing and they would be frantically shouting instructions.

No, they hadn't come to warn her of potential disaster. Something disastrous had already occurred. Something tragic had brought them here. Otherwise Corporals Lewis and Caltrane wouldn't be asking to come inside. They wouldn't be so reluctant to look her in the eye.

"What's happened?" She gripped the edge of the door. "Tell me."

Lewis reached for her, but she waved him off and backed into the entry hall. They followed her inside. Caltrane closed the door, while his partner approached her tentatively. "You'd better sit down, Ms. Lloyd."

"I don't want to sit down. I want to know what's going on and why you're here."

She divided a wild look between them, and apparently they saw the wisdom in telling her straight out. Lewis, the spokesman of the team, said, "Your sister. . . There was some, uh, trouble at her house. Either last night or early this morning. We're not sure yet."

"Is she all right?"

Caltrane looked down at the toes of his serviceable shoes. Lewis coughed behind his hand, but at least he had the gumption to maintain eye contact with her. "No, ma'am. I'm afraid not. She was found dead this morning."

It was as though someone had charged her lungs with a battering ram. Her breath gushed out in one loud exhalation. Her knees buckled. Lewis reached for her again, and this time she allowed him to support her as she lowered herself into a chair. The room tilted and her stomach heaved. Her earlobes seemed to catch fire. A curtain of blackness descended over her.

Somehow she managed to keep from fainting, but her breathing was choppy. Lewis ordered Caltrane to get her a glass of water, and he seemed relieved to leave the main room in search of the kitchen.

She covered her mouth with her hand. Her palm was damp, her fingers icy cold and trembling. Tears filled her eyes, but they were tears born of shock, not grief. It was too soon for grief.

What she felt was disbelief. This simply could not be happening. It had to be a bad dream from which she would awaken. Soon, please. Relieved, she would say a quick prayer of thanksgiving that it was only a dream. She might recall it later in the day and shudder, and then she would do something silly to help shake off the grim remnants of it. By tomorrow she would have forgotten it entirely.

Or if it wasn't a nightmare, it was a dreadful mistake. The police had the wrong house, the wrong person. They had made a grave error. She would sue the Dallas Police Department for putting her through this.

No, no, wait. She would send each division of the department a gift basket of fruit and cheese and summer sausages because she would be so glad that they'd been proved wrong.

But when she lifted her watery gaze to the police officer and asked if he was sure, she realized that her fantasies about nightmares and mistakes were just that—fantasies.

"One of your sister's neighbors knows that she's an early riser. She went over to borrow some coffee around seven-thirty this morning. She rang the doorbell several times. Ms. Lloyd's car was there, so the neighbor lady knew she must be at home. She knew where the spare key was hidden and let herself in. She found her in the bedroom."

Caltrane returned with a glass of tap water. Lewis took it from him and passed it to her. Fearing she would throw up if she tried to swallow anything, she set it untouched on the end table next to her chair.

Lewis continued. "The neighbor gave your name to the investigating officer. He sent us over to notify you."

"She's dead?" She shook her head with misapprehension. "How?"

Lewis glanced uneasily at his partner, but neither was brave enough to say anything.

"Answer me," she demanded, her voice cracking. "You said ... you said there was some trouble. What kind of trouble? With the furnace? Was she asphyxiated? Did she have a heart attack or allergic reaction? What?"

Lewis said, "Uh, no, ma'am. It looks like murder." Her lungs wheezed on another sudden exhale.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Lloyd. There's just no delicate way to put it. Your sister was killed. Rather viciously."

"Viciously?" she repeated in a thin voice.

"Investigators are already at the scene. A crime scene unit is on its way."

She surged to her feet. "I'm going over there."

"That wouldn't be wise," Lewis said hastily, patting the air between them. "Your sister's body will be taken—"

"I'm going over there."

She rushed into the bedroom and threw off the robe and nightgown. She grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt from the closet and pulled them on, then shoved her feet into a pair of sneakers. She grabbed her wallet and car keys, and, in under two minutes, rejoined the policemen at the front door.

Seeing the car keys clutched in her hand, Lewis offered to drive her there.

"I'll drive myself," she said, shoving him out of her path.

"I can't let you drive in the state you're in, Ms. Lloyd. You'd be a danger to yourself and other motorists. Maybe a friend could come—"

"Oh, all right. I'll ride there with you. But please, let's go." "Remember the house is a crime scene," he said. "You might not be allowed to go inside."

"I'd like to see someone try and stop me."

The drive from Melina's house to Gillian's took exactly eleven minutes. They had timed it. But at this time of day, the school zones were activated. The mute Caltrane drove slower than the posted speed limit, so the short trip seemed to take three times longer than usual.

Lewis, who was riding shotgun, consulted her several times along the way. "Are you all right, Ms. Lloyd?"

She didn't respond. Of course she wasn't all right, and he knew it. Why assure him that she was fine when she wasn't? The only reason she wasn't kicking and screaming was that she lacked the energy that hysteria required. She was too numbed by shock to weep, too shocked to do anything really except stare vacantly through the car window and try to sort through what she'd been told had happened, but which she could not grasp. Impossible. It could not be.

To everyone else this was just another day. Mothers were hustling their children off to school. Professional couples were hurriedly coordinating schedules before kissing one another goodbye. Retirees were sharing the morning newspaper or watching the news shows on TV.

Everyone except her was going about their routine, unscathed and unconcerned. She resented their disregard for her personal tragedy. Her life had just undergone a shattering, irreversible event. From this point forward, nothing would ever be the same. The loss of her sister, her twin, was permanent. It would last forever. Didn't anyone realize that? It seemed inherently wrong that the rest of the world hadn't paused to observe this tragic, life-changing episode.

Besides resenting anyone to whom this was a normal day, she envied their innocence. She desperately wished she could roll back the clock to a time when a scheduling snafu, or a snagged stocking, or a broken fingernail was the crisis of the day. She wanted to return to yesterday, to last night, to an hour ago, when she had been sleeping peacefully, blissfully unaware of the tragedy about to befall her.

But she was lapsing into wishful thinking again. This was all too real, as evinced when they turned the corner onto the block where a murder had taken place. Several emergency and official
vehicles were parked haphazardly in the street. Yellow crime scene tape had been strung around the entire perimeter of the house with the smart white shutters and glossy black door. Uniformed men and women were either going about their various tasks or milling around trying to look busy. Along the sidewalks on both sides of the street, neighbors had clustered in small groups. Some were already being questioned by police.

"No witnesses so far," Lewis informed her, noticing the direction of her gaze.

Because of the congestion on the street, the squad car was reduced to a crawl, then Caltrane brought it to a complete stop. "Can't you honk your horn or something?" she asked impatiently.

"Sorry, Ms. Lloyd. It's unfortunate, but a crime scene always attracts a crowd."

When a kid on a bicycle shot out in front of them and popped a wheelie, her tolerance level maxed out. "Oh, for heaven's sake," she shouted, "Let me out of here."

Lewis must have sensed that she was losing control. He motioned Caltrane to pull as close to the curb as possible. Immediately after he got out and opened the rear door, she pushed past him and ran the remainder of the way to the house, ignoring the curious stares of onlookers.

When she ducked beneath the tape, several officers rushed toward her, shouting for her to stop. Heedlessly, she sprinted across the lawn. She made it through the front door and into
the entry hall. There, three officers grabbed and restrained her from going farther.

"I must see her.... Let go of me!"

Huffing, Lewis ran in. "This is the victim's sister."

"Twin!" she corrected in what sounded to her own ears to be the ragged scream of a deranged woman. "I want to see her. Please let me go in. I must see her."

"Truly, you don't want to, Ms. Lloyd. Not now." A plain clothes
man approached and flashed her his badge. "Senior Corporal Lawson, Homicide Division."

"Let me through, please. Please."

"I understand your need to verify that she's dead, Ms, Lloyd. Believe me, I do."

"Then let me see her."

He shook his head decisively but kept his voice even. "The experts are collecting evidence. The fewer people in there," he said, using a quick motion of his head to indicate the bedroom down the hall, "the less contamination of the scene and the better chance we'll have of gathering clues that'll point us
to a suspect. You want to know who killed Gillian, don't you? And you want to know why, right?"

The detective's technique was straight out of Psychology 101. Obviously he had experience dealing with the hysterical relatives of violent crime victims. In any case, his calm manner steadied her. She stopped struggling against the officers holding her back.

Lawson's eyes held hers with the power of a hypnotist. Any other time, this man wouldn't have exercised that kind of control over her, but in the saner regions of her mind, she realized that she wanted someone to take control. She wanted someone to restore a semblance of order to her life, which, suddenly and without warning, had been pitched into chaos.

"We're going to work together to get some answers, right?" he asked.

She bobbed her head.

"Right. I want whoever did this caught, prosecuted, and convicted. So it's best if we stay clear of the scene. Otherwise,
it could be mucked up and whoever murdered your sister would get away with it."

"I don't want ..." She stopped to swallow emotionally. "I
don't want him to get away with it. I want him captured and punished."

"Then we're in agreement." He motioned brusquely, and the officers cautiously released her and fell back several steps.

She clasped her hands tightly, literally getting a grip on herself. "Do you know what happened?"

He motioned her toward the living room. "Why don't we sit down? I have some questions for you."

Her view into the bedroom was obstructed by a technician dusting the doorframe for fingerprints. Maybe she had deluded herself into believing that she was steeled for whatever she might see in there. Similar scenes on TV and in movies hadn't prepared her for the harsh reality. Being caught in such a circumstance was much worse than she could ever have imagined or any film could have depicted. Every sensory stimulation was vivid and jolting. In addition to the strange sights and sounds was an unfamiliar smell that was making her
queasy.

Once she was seated on the sofa, Lawson asked if he could
get her anything. She shook her head. "Nothing to drink?"