The Rule of Three, page 5
We hear Milly humming to herself and doing something in the hallway closet, a few feet from us on the other side of the wall.
“Who do you think did this?” I look at my sister.
“I don’t know. Terry had some enemies.”
“Not as many as Gil.” We lean into each other, and the weight of my sister on me takes away some of the horrible feeling in my head.
“Do you think he did this?” I ask her.
“Spencer?”
“It seems like it,” I say. “Who else would it be?”
“But why?” she says. “Terry has been helping him. And why Gil?”
“I don’t know. You know they’ve been acting really weird. Something has been going on,” I say.
“Poor Monica. I hope she’s okay.” She stands and catches my eye. “You should get to Gil.” I stand up and accept her hug.
“I want to be here, to help you. I hate that I have to go to the hospital.”
“Don’t worry about me. I can handle this,” she says stoically.
“You should be at my house. We need to stay close right now. Please come over as soon as you can.” We both glance at each other, expecting Milly might pop in and object.
“I will. I just want to stay close to the house for a little longer. God knows how long it will be a crime scene, but I want to see if I can grab some more of my things first.”
I take hold of her hand again. “I have anything and everything you could possibly need at my house, sis. Just come with me now.” I feel a sense of desperation overtake me.
She hugs me hard. “Soon. I’ll come to the house or the hospital, wherever you are, as soon as I can. Promise.”
“Okay.”
Vicky whispers into my ear, “I love you.”
I squeeze her hard. “Love you more.”
* * *
Once I leave Milly’s property, I sprint through the woods, my mind wild. When I near my house, I see a car that I don’t recognize pulling into the driveway and my heart two-steps. I watched the serious-faced pair emerge from their car and approach them from behind as they make their way to my front door. I muster a smile and brace myself for the worst.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WOLCOTT
The smile’s not quite right.
In our line of work, this happens more often than not. People shellac all sorts of expressions onto their faces, hoping to lead our assumptions in one direction or another. And smiles come in countless varieties, on all manner of people.
There’s the husband greeting us at the front door, trying to convince us that the bruise on his wife’s cheek is from that same pesky cabinet she keeps walking into. There’s the woman who has no clue how the floodlights on her neighbor’s garage—the same ones she’d filed a formal complaint with our department about only weeks before—came to have their electrical cords severed.
There are the smiles born of nervousness, on the faces of those just waiting to get caught. And there are the smiles born of arrogance, on the faces of those who assume they never will be. Occasionally, there’s even genuine relief behind the smile; the person is glad to see us. But this isn’t one of those occasions.
“Mrs. Mathers,” I begin. “Did we catch you at an okay time?” She keeps the expression in place as she fidgets, hands moving from her hair to smooth the front of her jogging shorts. She shares the same sinewy frame and chestnut hair as her sister, and while her hazel eyes lack the brilliance of Victoria’s, they suggest a similarly vigilant intelligence. The most glaring difference, at least at the moment, is Laura’s open display of nervous energy.
“Um, yeah,” she says. “Sorry, I just got back from a run.” She checks her smartwatch, then looks between Silvestri and me. She appears flummoxed. “I assumed the hospital would phone me if anything changed. Is Gil okay?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I clarify. “I’m Detective Wolcott, and this is my partner, Detective Silvestri. We’re following up on the conversation you had with Officers Davis and Pedone. My partner and I are here to ask you a few questions.”
“Oh.” She shakes off her previous thought and reconsiders us. “Please, call me Laura. How can I help you, Detectives?”
“We were sorry to hear about the incident involving your husband,” I say. “Do you have any idea what could have led to him being shot?”
“I wish I did.” She takes a deliberate breath. “Gil had his poker game last night. He and a couple of the guys get together every week to play while my sister, our girlfriend, and I hold our book club. I knew they were wrapping up, because my sister’s husband texts when they’re finishing. Gil hadn’t come home, and I was tired, so I texted him to tell him I was going to bed. I was lying there, annoyed, because I thought he was off getting drunk with the boys.” She rolls her eyes unconsciously. “It felt like I had just gotten to sleep when I received the call about my husband.” Her mouth tightens. “It was a blur after that. I rushed to the hospital, where I was with him all night, and just came home to take care of a few things before I go back today.” She drops her head, appraising her outfit. “I know this probably seems strange, with what’s happened.” She self-consciously crosses her arms over her torso.
“Everyone has their own way of coping,” says Silvestri. “Now, Laura, can you think of anyone who would want to harm your husband?”
“Not off the top of my head,” she says, seemingly baffled. “I mean, the death threats had subsided. All of that was in the past. At least, I thought it was.” Her tone is more question than answer, until she realizes the lack of context she’s offered us. “Oh, I should explain, about the threats.”
“We’re familiar with your husband’s situation,” I say, before switching gears. “What was your sense of the dynamic between the poker partners? Had your husband discussed any issues he’d had with Mr. Barnes or Mr. Nichols as of late?”
She considers the question, her arms tensing across her abdomen. “Not that Gil mentioned to me,” she answers.
“And are you familiar with a Randall Hemmings? Does that name ring any bells?”
The corners of her eyes crinkle as she considers the question. “I don’t think so, no.”
“Okay. Had you noticed anything strange with your husband’s behavior recently?” asks Silvestri. “Maybe over the course of this past week, or yesterday in particular?”
“No more than usual,” says Laura, a nervous laugh accompanying the comment.
“And there’s no one you can think of that might have wished your husband dead?” I ask. “Anyone at all?”
“Detectives,” she answers, her jaw tightening. “I can think of a million people who would have liked to see my husband dead. He wasn’t very well liked. But no one in particular, who actually knew him in real life, comes to mind.” Her voice quivers on the last sentence, and before I know it, tears are streaking her cheeks. I offer up a handkerchief, but she waves it away, opting instead to dry her eyes with the back of her wrist.
“I see.” As I reach into my vest pocket, Silvestri pulls out his phone, excuses himself, and steps away to answer the incoming call. I produce my business card and hand it to her. “We’ll leave you to take care of what you need to take care of, Laura. We may need you to come down to the station to speak with us some more. In the meantime, if there’s anything we can do for you, or if you hear anything, please don’t hesitate to call, okay?”
“Thank you, Detective.” She sniffles, then palms the card and takes a last look at my partner and me before turning up the walkway toward her front porch.
I catch up to Silvestri, standing near the unmarked, just as he’s hanging up and pocketing the phone. “What’s up?” I ask.
“That was the station,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “We just got the location of Spencer Nichols’s Mustang.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
VICTORIA
“Vicky, I’m freaking the fuck out.” I catch Monica as she approaches me on the front porch of my neighbor’s house, where I’m hiding out until I can escape to my sister’s. I can always measure Mon’s level of distress by how much of her accent is slipping out, and this current display strikes me as cause for concern. I put a finger to my lips before I wrap her in a tight hug. “What?” she whispers into my ear, a fissure in her voice.
“Milly,” I say softly, hiking my thumb toward the door behind me. “She’s got ears like a bat.” I lend a comically ghoulish tone to my voice in an attempt to ease my friend’s anxiety as well as my own. “She can hear you through the walls.”
“You’re not kidding.” She half laughs.
Milly’s a lady of leisure, with a husband who’s a high-powered attorney, providing her with plenty of alone time to poke around in any old thing that might pique her curiosity. In this case, that thing happens to be a violent homicide on the other side of her fence. She’s also not the type to be easily deterred, and if it’s occurred to her that I might be grappling with some ugly mixture of grief, anger, and angst, it certainly hasn’t stopped her from sticking her surgically enhanced nose directly into my business.
She has been kind enough to let me weather the storm here—more grist for her self-generated rumor mill, I’m sure—and I’ve spent the last hour or so marveling at just how much space this wisp of a thing can take up once she gets going. In an almost awe-inspiring display of passive-aggressive territory marking that began the moment I’d entered the house, she pried the overnight bag I’d brought along out of my grasp before physically parking me on the sofa, commandeering my phone, and beginning to field the barrage of incoming calls.
Truthfully, I’m relieved to have her running interference. I’m having a hard enough time keeping it all together and can’t imagine getting on the phone with any of the neighbors right now. I dread the very thought of the endless circle of verbal reassurances that would entail, never mind the news outlets that are trying to chase down the story of last night’s disturbance. But missed calls will simply lead to more missed calls, so I’m happy to provide the busybody with somewhere to focus her energy.
I give Mon a squeeze before slipping out of the embrace, then take her hand and lead her into the house. We walk in on the end of a phone call, as Milly is saying, “We have no comment right now,” curtly into the phone. She hangs up, sighs, and rolls her eyes. “These people,” she huffs, in the tone of someone who hasn’t expressly signed up for the job she’s now complaining about having to perform. She takes notice of Mon and quickly shifts to a compassionate expression. “Oh, here to check in on our Vic?” she asks cloyingly. “How sweet.”
“Hi, Milly.” I can hear Mon strain to keep her tone pleasant and neutral. “Nice to see you again.”
“You too, honey.” Milly makes a big show of waving her off. “But don’t mind me. Just here to help. Can I get you anything?”
“Um, water would be great,” says Mon flatly. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Milly says, crossing to the cabinet and retrieving three glasses. As she begins filling them from a pitcher, the phone in her pocket—my phone—rings, and she abandons the hydration station to answer the call. She sets off on a lap around the room, and I seize the opportunity to catch Mon’s eye and nod toward the door to the back porch. With my neighbor absorbed in the phone call, we dart outside unnoticed.
As soon as I close the door behind me, she lets loose. “Good God.” She muffles a scream. “I swear I was going to strangle her.”
“I know,” I say, rolling my eyes in commiseration. “But she’s helping me out. I really can’t face all of that right now.”
“Oh, babe.” Her tone softens, and she puts her arms around me again. “I know, I know.” She pulls back and studies my face. “You holding it together okay?”
I nearly balk at the question but keep my expression steady. If anything, this line of inquiry should be happening the other way around. Of the three of us, Mon is the one who makes me the most nervous in terms of her ability to keep a level head through all this. Laura and I have discussed our concern for her privately.
Monica’s always lacked confidence and a clear sense of how to assert herself, which has a history of manifesting itself in her relationships. It’s how she came to marry that overbearing asshole husband of hers, and how she ultimately came to be standing here, on Milly’s back porch, wondering over that missing husband as she consoles me over my murdered one.
She’s way too deferential. Spencer’s always walked all over her, simply because he could. He’s made a show of encouraging her to speak up for herself, but I’ve always wondered if his fragile ego could handle it if she ever truly did. And I’m afraid she’s going to default to the same dynamic with Laura and me. Ultimately, if we’re going to make it through this, she’ll have to learn to stand on her own.
“I’m okay,” I say, as eager to believe the sentiment myself as I am to assure her. “How about you? Have you heard anything about Spence yet? Anything from the police?”
“No.” I can feel her body vibrating. “The uncertainty is driving me nuts. I just need to know that they found him.”
“I get it.” I clasp her hands in mine and nod reassuringly. “There should be news any time now. I’m sure of it.”
“I know.” She mirrors my nodding. “I know you’re right, Vic.”
“Hey,” I say, gently pivoting the conversation. “Any word from Laura?”
“Just texts. I know she’s back and forth from the hospital, trying to take care of everything with Gil.” She shakes her head. “I’m sure she’ll be by when she can.”
“Of course,” I say. “I get it.” And I feel that I do. I’m realizing the powerlessness and desperation involved in having to speculate over one’s own fate. Of having to wonder if a man might wake up or not, and how either outcome can affect you in dramatically different ways. As tragic as my situation might be, at least it comes with the modest gift of certainty attached. I let go of her hands and set mine on her shoulders. “We’re going to be okay,” I promise her with a firm squeeze.
“We’re going to be okay,” she echoes back, nodding and summoning a tentative smile. “I love you, Vic.”
“Love you too,” I say.
CHAPTER NINE
SILVESTRI
“What do you make of this?” I ask.
We’ve pulled up to the spot where Spencer Nichols’s Fastback sits, parked in front of the Porsche Cayenne that’s just been ID’d as belonging to Gil Mathers. Both vehicles are tucked into a narrow clearance on the edge of a stretch of woods no more than half a mile outside Kingsland, set back from the highway and obscured from sight by a row of scraggly bushes. A trail runner passing through earlier spotted the vehicles and called the station to report them.
We cross the grass to the back of the Cayenne and come around to the driver’s side, where I find the door set slightly open. I push it the rest of the way with my elbow and look in to find a zipped duffel bag sitting on the passenger-side floor. A couple of file folders identical to the one we found in Terry Barnes’s safe lie on the passenger seat. As I lean in closer, I can make out the names “Spencer Nichols” and “Gil Mathers” on the tabs attached to the folders.
“Silvestri,” I hear my partner say with some urgency. I snake my way back out of the Porsche and walk to the front of the Mustang, where Wolcott is standing over the corpse of Spencer Nichols. A Beretta nine millimeter lies a few feet from the dead man’s hand. The body is rag-dolled across the dirt, the side of the neck messily punctured with a bullet hole. “Shit,” says Wolcott, shaking his head as he pulls out his cell to call in the second homicide of our current shift.
* * *
By the time the team arrives, Wolcott and I have the core area of the scene secured. We’ve blocked off a space around the vicinity of the vehicles, where the photographer is busily snapping away. An examiner is making a cast of a shoeprint we found near the Mustang that appears to have been left by a smaller-size men’s driving loafer. We’ve recovered a Smith & Wesson pistol that was flung under the Porsche near the left rear tire, as well as a corresponding .40-caliber shell casing from a spot in the brush several feet away and a nine-millimeter casing found in close proximity to the Mustang. I make a mental note to check the registration on the Smith & Wesson, suspecting that Gil Mathers will come up as the gun’s owner.
Fisk, the ME, is standing near Nichols’s body when she waves us over, the familiar neutral expression plastered on her face.
“Fiskers,” I say, approaching her. “What sort of magic you conjuring today?”
“Prepare to be dazzled,” she deadpans, adding abracadabra hands for good measure. “Gunshot wound.”
“Yeah, we got that far, wiseass,” I say. “Can you give us any idea how long the victim’s not been with us?”
“Well,” she begins. “Based on core temp and degree of rigor, I’d put time of death somewhere around eleven last night. Looks like he was killed right where he’s lying, hit from the side.”
“Okay,” says Wolcott, jotting something down before pocketing his notepad. “Fisk, you’re class all the way.”
“Thanks, doll,” she says, and turns to assess me. “Silvestri, you’re looking very relaxed lately. It’s making me nervous.”
“Oh yeah,” I say. “I’ve been seeing a dynamite acupuncturist. She’s really getting me straightened out.”
“Huh,” she says. “So, you’re paying money to get stabbed repeatedly. Okay.” She shrugs and turns back to the corpse.
“Stay golden, Fisk,” I say in parting.
My partner and I duck off to the side. “Silvestri,” he says, “I gotta eat something. I’m operating on fumes over here.”
“I’m with you on that. Let’s get this shit checked into evidence and sent off for ballistics. Then we can run Barnes’s and Nichols’s cells over to Clarence,” I say, referring to the phones we retrieved from the dead men. “Let him crack those open while we hit Gus’s for some chow.”
