The Rule of Three, page 25
* * *
“It was Milly who got us curious again.”
Laura grumbles under her breath. I watch her jaw unclamp, but counsel dissuades her from speaking on the matter with a quick flourish of his hand. I guess mum’s the game plan for today. The lawyer turns his attention to me and his eyes engage mine and hold firm as if he’s trying to win a staring contest. I toss him a dismissive grin to indicate I’ll be having none of it, and return my focus to his client.
“We had a conversation with her outside of Terry’s memorial service, where she made a couple of comments that stirred our curiosity. The first referred to chance; specifically, the odds of two people in the same family falling victim to the same type of violence.” I watch the emotion catch in her throat and decide to move right along. “The second was an offhanded remark about all the mischief you ladies could be getting up to between your houses. The comment didn’t fully click with us until later, after her son, Bryce, filled us in on the trails in the woods that connect the homes in Kingsland.”
* * *
“The nurse attending to Gil mentioned that he’d called out Monica’s name when he awoke from the coma briefly, which initially had us assuming an affair between the two of them, but after the conversation with Milly, we went back and took a closer look at those files your husband kept on the Nicholses and Matherses. And wouldn’t you know it: The closer we looked, the more a pattern began to form. The pieces started falling into place.
“Your husband was a big gun advocate, and your niece became the tragic victim of a mass shooting. On top of that, Gil Mathers has a past history of committing sexual assault, and your friend Monica Nichols headed up a charity organization that aided survivors of sexual assault. Now, I know love can overlook a lot of things, but that seemed like a pretty extreme blind spot.
“So, we started reassessing our earlier assumptions. Maybe, we thought, when your brother-in-law spoke Monica’s name from his hospital bed, he wasn’t calling out for his mistress. Maybe he was calling out the name of the person who’d tried to murder him.”
* * *
“Planting Hemmings’s file along with the husbands’ was a nice touch. We started down that road, and he’s certainly the kind of guy to raise a few red flags. When we got the ballistics back from the shooting in the woods and realized there was a second nine millimeter in the mix, we assumed it was his. Until he got alibied out, that is.
“At that point, we had to rejigger the math on the guns, and something occurred to us: There was a tight window of time on all three of the shootings that night, and if someone were trying to make it look like the same gun was used in two places at once, getting their hands on the same caliber weapon would be a handy way to go about it. Who knows; maybe we’d just assume it was the same nine millimeter and not look too closely at it. Of course we did, and then it became simple arithmetic: three different guns; three different shooters.”
* * *
“This was all circumstantial, of course. We still needed a way to play the theory out. Luckily, we were able to get Dr. Mitali to help by pushing up Gil’s resuscitation date . . . at least in her phone call to your sister.” The color is rising in Victoria’s face, and I notice she’s white-knuckling the edge of the table. The veneer of calm collectedness I’ve never seen her without threatens to flake away before my eyes. “That little ploy seemed to force your collective hand,” I continue. “And after Monica’s close call, Laura walked right into our trap.”
* * *
“After we arrested you, we were able to poke around in your phone. Found a couple of interesting tidbits there. For one, you forgot to delete the confirmation email from the app that does the timed Instagram posts.” I watch Laura’s face tighten. “Now, why would you need to delay a post, unless you were trying to, say, establish a timeline toward an alibi?” I let the question hang in the air for a moment, with no expectation of receiving an answer.
“Which brings us to The Rule of Three.” I crack a thin smile as I shake my head. “My partner and I were pretty tickled when we realized you ladies were utilizing a self-help book as the inspiration to plot a triple homicide. That was a first, in our experience. And it took us a minute to correlate the number code in your text exchange with the page from the book—that was my partner’s hunch. But once we did, it all came clear.” I pull up the page on my phone so as not to butcher it in the recounting. “Okay, Monica’s last text to you: ‘22:3:32.’ Chapter twenty-two, third paragraph, thirty-second word. Here goes: ‘When chasing your desired goals, remember this: Where a rash heart first fails, a sober head later succeeds.’ ” I let the realization of her misstep sink in before speaking again. “I get it. Monica couldn’t finish off Gil in the hospital that night—and you couldn’t risk him talking when he woke up—so you had to step in and handle things yourself.”
Laura’s eyes narrow, and I can practically feel the rage vibrating off her, a kettle climbing toward a boil. But she remains silent under her lawyer’s watch.
* * *
“Now, Victoria,” I say. “I’d like to ask you about Monica Nichols. My partner and I haven’t had any luck tracking her down since she left Gil’s hospital room last night.” I give the pause after my remark some room to breathe. “She hasn’t been at home, and there doesn’t appear to be any sign of her having packed up and taken off.” I watch as a look forms on Victoria’s face that I take for genuine surprise. Heartened, I push on. “It’s as if Mrs. Nichols just up and disappeared. Or as if someone disappeared her. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
She remains silent as her lawyer interjects, but I swear I detect nervous doubt sneaking its way into her expression. I let the silence stretch out as she seems to consider this new development, and I wonder in the moment if she’s beginning to consider what her own sister might be capable of without her.
* * *
“You get anything?” Wolcott and I are back at our desks after wrapping up the interrogations for the day.
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “Crickets all the way. You?”
“Same. Those lawyers are keeping a tight rein on the program.”
“Bet.” He blows gently on his coffee. “Although I’m not sure how you wriggle out of getting caught in the act of suffocating a comatose man.”
“Never underestimate the finest defense money can buy,” I say, feeling the sneer take shape.
“We’ll see.” He takes a deliberate sip, then shakes his head.
“You do have to find it funny, though.”
“What’s that?” asks Wolcott.
“The fact that the book that gave them the idea in the first place led to the whole plan unraveling.”
We’d been at our wit’s end yesterday after hitting yet another wall with the stolen-car lead. I’d gone to get us a coffee and a tea, and when I’d returned, a light bulb had gone on in my partner’s head. He’d had his copy of The Rule of Three cracked open and excitedly showed me the first rule: The spiritual path is not a solo one; choose carefully who you decide to walk it with. It took me a moment to grasp what he was going on about, but he explained it as we left the station and drove to Kingsland to confirm his hunch.
The mention of the figurative path in the book had dovetailed in his brain with Bryce’s comment about the literal paths in the woods behind the houses in the neighborhood, and with Milly’s mention of the mischief she’d suspected the women to be capable of. When we’d arrived and stealthily nosed around the area between the houses of the three women, the connection was confirmed, and our theory was on its way to being proven right, with a little help from the very people who were trying their best to throw us off the trail.
With the interrogations taken care of, our next order of business will be to reach out to the FBI to turn over Terry Barnes’s laptop. Once their techs have a chance to examine the tracking app Terry was utilizing, they should be able to get a better handle on the scope of the criminal activity involving Barnes, Nichols, Mathers, and Randall Hemmings. And while Hemmings’s hands proved to be clean insofar as the murders were concerned, my partner and I remain convinced that the feds will turn up a dirty pair of mitts on the guy with regard to the tracking tech as they figure out exactly how that piece fits into the larger puzzle.
“I gotta tell you, pal.” I enjoy a sip of tea as Wolcott eyes me. “I don’t think I can remember being this excited for a good night’s sleep.”
“You got that right,” he says, glancing at his watch. “And it’ll sure be nice to wake up back in the real world again.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
LAURA
“This is the end,” Vicky says, as we pull into a spot outside the gates of Kingsland Memorial cemetery.
“Depends on your perspective,” I say.
Vicky side-eyes me as we step out of the car. The sun is high in the cloudless sky and the temperature is a perfect seventy-five degrees. Being outside, unencumbered and alone with my sister, feels miraculous. It is mid-September, a year and two months after the deaths of Terry and Spencer and the near death of Gil. Vicky and I have been in custody, under house arrest, and on trial for fourteen months. As of today at three p.m., we are free. Relatively speaking.
We link arms and ignore the paparazzi with long-range cameras pointed in our direction at the security gate of the property. Our expressions rest in unmoving solemnity, but inside, we are light, happy, and liberated.
“You were incredible on the stand. I always knew you were good under pressure, but that was an Oscar-worthy performance, Vick. I think everyone on the jury fell in love with you.”
“Not that we ended up needing it,” she says.
“Still. I barely made it through my cross-examination without cursing out the prosecution. You were all dignity and class.”
“I just thought about all of the pain they caused and what they were planning. And I thought about Libby and everything that you’ve had to go through.” A few tears roll down my sister’s beautiful face. “My feelings were honest. And I have no regrets.”
“Me neither.” I squeeze her arm, feeling an unexpected wave of emotion rising. She sees that I’m on the verge and looks toward the photographers behind us, who can’t come any farther into the private property.
“Let’s not give them the satisfaction. Crying shots go for more money, I’m sure.” She flicks her tears away. “The last thing we need is more media commentary on our mental conditions.”
“Does it matter anymore? We’ve been acquitted,” I say.
“Only on a technicality. Everyone still thinks we did it.”
“Good. Maybe the next crop of misogynistic sociopaths who think they can control and treat women like possessions will think twice.”
“Let’s not get too cocky. There’ll be appeals,” Vicky presses.
“Your late husband was wrong about so many things, but I’ll agree with him on having the best legal defense team on the planet,” I say. “We’ll be fine.”
“It worked just like we knew it would,” she says.
“Not that it was easy,” I lament.
We are both beyond relieved to be done with the monotony of being housebound alone. We’ve missed each other terribly. The frantic circus of the court proceedings of the last six weeks was jarring and dicey at moments, but at least Vicky and I were able to be together during the trial after being separated for so long.
“Honestly, at this point, how many murderers have we seen walk free, thanks to Terry and his legal mafia?” Vicky says bitterly.
“Too many. Now we have time to try and make some of those cases right.”
“Absolutely,” Vicky says knowingly.
“And unfortunately for the offices of LeFleur, Stermer & Schelling, we know where Terry’s rainy-day dirt is buried.”
The soothing sounds of nature around us fill in the blanks as we continue walking, deep in our own thoughts.
“If I didn’t know better, I would think this was a golf course,” I say as we pass a babbling brook flowing lazily past perfectly green grass and weeping willows.
“I think that was kind of Terry’s point.”
“Golfing is as exciting as walking through a cemetery?”
“Or that golf was like death.”
There is only one grave so far in Kingsland Memorial. It sits at the top of the hill like a barbican overlooking the houses of Kingsland a quarter of a mile from where we are walking. It is a garish black marble mausoleum reminiscent of the Lincoln Memorial, complete with a life-size likeness of Terry standing outside the structure watching over his creation.
“Of course he included burial plots in the deluxe package,” I marvel.
“Even in death, Terry wanted to keep tabs on everyone,” Vicky deadpans.
“I don’t think he planned on being the first one in, though.”
“He will likely be the only. More houses went up for sale this week. I’m hearing that almost half of the original Kingslanders are gone so far.”
As we move toward the eyesore on the hill, the feeling of being watched from afar nags.
“I think it’s time we moved on from Kingsland too, don’t you?”
“Agreed.”
We unlink arms as we ascend the marble stairs leading to the entrance of Terry’s eyesore.
Vicky surveys the cemetery property all around us. “Monica should be here.”
“In Terry’s cemetery?” I say.
Vicky frowns. “You know what I mean.
“Everyone thinks that we killed her,” my sister says.
“Monica had to be out of the picture for this all to work,” I say.
“According to the gristmill, she’s buried in pieces somewhere along the trails.”
“That’s awful, and completely unimaginative.”
Vicky shoots me a disapproving look.
“I also heard that we took her out on Terry’s boat and threw her in the ocean.”
We both shake our heads. “As if I’d ever step foot on the Seaduction ever again. I hate that boat so much,” Vicky says.
“At least the DA’s case against us has fizzled.”
“No body, no crime. Everyone knows that.”
“People in Kingsland are afraid of us.”
“The husbands are. But the wives are grateful. After the FBI revealed that they all were being tracked, Roger LeFleur’s divorce cases quadrupled. The women know that we are the reason the police found out about the tracking.”
“And the trafficking.” We both shake our heads.
We stop to watch a crow that has landed near our feet and is pecking at something in the grass.
“I miss Mon,” Vicky says softly.
“She served her purpose.”
Vicky raises an eyebrow. “Oh, Laura.”
“What? You liked her more than I did.”
“Say what you will about her, Laur, she helped us escape this insanity. I’m grateful she and Spencer came to Kingsland.”
“If only she’d been able to keep up her end,” I say bitterly. “Luckily the case was done before Gil had a chance to testify.”
“Even if he had taken the stand, the lawyers had a hundred ways to discredit him. And he never saw me that night.”
“Plus, even if he did claim to see Monica, they won’t be able to find her to ask her about it,” I add. “It is amazing what a difference a few centimeters can make. Gil is a lucky motherfucker.”
“Lucky for him that the detectives were waiting for you that night in the hospital,” Vicky says disapprovingly. “Less so for you. I still can’t believe you went there to kill him without telling me. That wasn’t part of the plan and really stupid.”
“I knew you would have tried to stop me. And I had to take care of what Monica couldn’t,” I say resentfully.
“Holding on to the past will keep you from ever moving forward,” Vicky says.
I side-eye her. “Are you quoting the fucking book?”
“It is true, though, isn’t it? If you keep replaying what didn’t happen that night, we’ll never be able to reap the benefits of what did happen.”
I am dually irritated and amused by my sister’s wisdom.
“What really happened that night?” I ask Vicky.
“Really? Now?” she moans.
“We’ve stayed silent for so long.” I take a breath. “When Gil turned up alive, I almost cracked.”
“Me too. But the risk that someone would hear us, or that we were being recorded, was enough incentive to keep quiet.”
I gesture to our surroundings. “And if ever there was an appropriate backdrop . . .”
“Okay.” She takes a breath. “We thought everything went smoothly until Gil turned up alive.” I hear the weariness in Vicky’s voice. “I shot Spence and Monica shot Gil, as planned. As far as we could tell, Gil and Spence didn’t see us coming. We waited for them in the bushes, and when they pulled up, Monica got Gil from behind, and I got Spence from the side. When we put the gun in Spence’s hand and looked over Gil, well, they both looked very dead.”
“Neither of you thought to double-check?” I say, a year-plus resentment resurfacing.
“There was a lot of blood and we were thinking about footprints and fingerprints. We didn’t want to move around the scene too much—”
“That was the point of the gloves and wearing Hemmings’s favorite shoes in his size—”
“—which wasn’t that easy, by the way. We were both slipping around in them, even though they weren’t that big—”
