Cold-Blooded, page 8
Francine opened the front door with a confused smile on her face. She wasn’t what Jocelyn had expected, although Jocelyn wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, having only seen Francine before on grainy police footage. The woman before her was short and plump. She wore a billowing red blouse over black leggings with brown soft-leather boots that came up to her knees. Her round face was framed by shoulder length brown hair that looked fresh from a salon—the ends cut to curl under, her locks shiny and soft-looking. She had big blue eyes, a small straight nose, and a thin mouth. She was plain, her attractiveness understated. Jocelyn would bet that she spent a lot of time to look as casually attractive as she did now. Not a knock-out, Kevin would say, but worth a look.
“Can I help you?” Francine said.
Jocelyn took a decisive step forward as she extended her hand in greeting, nearly putting one foot inside the house. “Jocelyn Rush. I’ve been hired by the family of one of your husband’s former students. We’re holding a scholarship fundraiser, and we were hoping he’d speak. Is he home?”
Jocelyn craned her neck to look behind Francine, even though she knew Cash wasn’t there. Another step put her over the threshold.
Francine backed up slightly. “Do you have a business card or something?” She still had a smile plastered on her face, although it faltered slightly.
“Of course,” Jocelyn said, smiling back. She handed Francine a business card. “You can keep that.”
“Thank you,” Francine said tightly, studying Jocelyn’s card. “My husband just went to the store. You’re welcome to come in and wait. Which student did you say this was about?”
Jocelyn took another step into the foyer. Francine closed the door. Jocelyn made sure to look into her eyes when she replied, “Sydney Adams.”
Something passed over Francine’s face, like a ripple in still waters. Something haunted, something pained. She smiled a mirthless smile. “Oh,” she said softly. “Sydney. She was a very special girl.”
“Yes, she was,” Jocelyn agreed. “I understand that she and your husband were close.”
The corners of Francine’s mouth stiffened. “They were.” She motioned to her left where Jocelyn could see a sitting room. “Please. Come sit.”
The room was beautifully decorated in muted blue tones. A couch, love seat, and a recliner were centered around a glass-topped coffee table that held a tall vase with an artificial floral arrangement in it and several large, hardback coffee table books. Along one wall was a credenza topped with framed photos of Cash and Francine. Above it hung a sign that read: Welcome to Our Happily Ever After. The other walls were decorated with a series of paintings of exotic flowers done in mesmerizing pastel swirls. It looked like something out of a high-end catalog.
Jocelyn took a seat on the cushy blue couch, which nearly swallowed her. She braced both hands on the edge, trying to steady herself. Across from her, on the other side of the coffee table, Francine perched on the very edge of an equally plush love seat. So that was the trick, Jocelyn thought. She struggled to get her ass onto the very edge of the couch. Finally, she looked at Francine. The woman had placed both hands over her stomach, almost protectively.
Kevin used to say, “Never ask a woman if she’s pregnant unless you see a baby’s head crowning.” But Jocelyn was certain of what she saw. This was her opening. “How far along are you?”
Francine’s face flushed—a happy glow, her face breaking into a huge smile. “Fourteen weeks,” she said. “We’ve been trying a long time.”
“This is your first child?”
The smile wavered. “Yeah. I hope so. I mean I’ve had miscarriages. This is as far as I’ve ever gotten, so we’re very hopeful.” She raised both hands, her index and middle fingers crossed.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jocelyn said. She placed her hands flat on her knees.
“Do you have children?”
Jocelyn smiled. “A daughter. Olivia. She’s four.”
Francine’s eyes flitted to Jocelyn’s hand, her brow furrowing when she saw Jocelyn’s scar. “What happened to your hand?”
Jocelyn looked down at her left hand.
Quickly, Francine added, “I’m sorry. That was so rude of me. Forget I asked.”
Jocelyn continued to stare at the scar. She’d never used it before to help her with an interview or interrogation. She had a strange relationship with it. The mere sight of it brought back the worst night of her life, yet it represented an end to the secrecy that had destroyed her family and a new chance at a relationship with her sister. But it was there every day, every minute, forever visible, and always provoking questions. Jocelyn stroked the gnarled skin on top of her hand. She turned her palm over and showed Francine the matching scar on the inside. Francine’s hand flew to her mouth.
“A man did this,” Jocelyn said.
“Dear God, I’m sorry.”
Jocelyn met her eyes. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”
Francine’s hand slid down to her chest. She leaned forward to get a better look at the scar, a look of guarded fascination on her face.
“You can come closer,” Jocelyn told her. “It’s okay. I know people . . . well, they can’t help but look at it.”
Francine moved around the coffee table and perched beside Jocelyn. “Does it hurt?”
“No. Not anymore.” She didn’t tell the woman about the phantom pain. At least that’s what she thought it was when pain pierced the wound out of nowhere like the nail was being driven in all over again. The doctor said it was likely nerve pain. She was grateful it didn’t happen often.
Francine continued staring. Then she reached for Jocelyn’s hand but stopped herself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m a school nurse. I never get to see anything . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence, and Jocelyn wondered what she was going to say. Gruesome? Interesting? Instead, Francine said, “May I?”
It was an odd request, but Jocelyn was about to ask the woman some tough questions. She was going to need Francine’s cooperation if at all possible. “Sure,” Jocelyn said, offering up her palm.
Hesitantly, Francine traced the circumference of the scar with her index finger. Her touch was light and gentle, like a butterfly’s wings.
“Francine,” Jocelyn said as the woman pulled back. “Before your husband gets home, there’s something I need to ask you.”
The woman’s eyes flitted to Jocelyn’s face. “Is that from a . . .”
“A nail, yes,” Jocelyn said, curling her hand into a fist and pulling it closer to her body. “Francine,” she tried again. “I talked to Lonnie Burgess the other day. Do you remember him? He was Sydney Adams’ boyfriend.”
Francine’s attention finally left Jocelyn’s scar. “Yes, I remember him,” she said. “He was a sweet boy. Very smart.”
“Lonnie was also asked to speak at the scholarship fundraiser. I talked with him at length about Sydney and, well, it came up that in his senior year, you asked him to get you a gun because you were afraid of your husband.”
Francine drew back, away from Jocelyn as she spoke. Her expression closed off. Her hands circled her belly once more.
“I hate to bring this up,” Jocelyn said. “But it is important to Sydney’s case for us to know if you had a gun in this house at the time Sydney was murdered.”
“Well, if you spoke with Lonnie, then he would have told you that he did not get me a gun.”
“He said that, yes.”
“It was a very stupid thing that I did—asking a teenage boy to get me a gun. I was—I was very distraught at the time. I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Did your husband hit you, Francine?”
Francine smiled, and Jocelyn was struck by how forced and fake it seemed. “There was a time, before Sydney Adams was murdered, that I felt afraid of my husband. I had just had a miscarriage. I wanted to try again. He didn’t. I may have . . . pushed a little too hard. We argued a lot. Things were very tense. But my husband has never hit me.”
Jocelyn tried her best to keep the skepticism out of her voice. She’d dealt with thousands of domestic violence cases during her tenure with the Philadelphia Police Department. Many women lied about being abused, even as they stood before her with battered faces and bodies. But Jocelyn knew that they lied because their lives often depended on convincing others that their husbands were not abusing them.
“Francine,” Jocelyn said. “This is just between us. You don’t have to cover for him with me. I’m not going to arrest him or make any kind of trouble for you. I know what men are capable of.” She raised her scarred hand in the air for emphasis.
Francine’s smile loosened somewhat. Either she had a ton of practice lying, or she was telling the truth—that her husband frightened her, but he had never actually hit her. “Cash is not like that,” Francine said. “He has never hit me, and he never would. I never needed that gun, and I realized that after I calmed down. It was a very emotional time. I had just lost a child.”
“I understand,” Jocelyn said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You’re a private investigator,” Francine said, pointing to Jocelyn’s business card on the coffee table. “That’s your job. You know, we filed a grievance with the police department years ago. We thought this matter—Sydney’s case—was closed.”
“I’m not with the police, Mrs. Rigo. Sydney’s family hired me. I’m a neutral party.”
Jocelyn heard the lock in the front door turn. A cold blast of air sailed through the room as the door opened and closed.
“Fran,” a male voice called. “They didn’t have escarole, so I just got fresh spinach.”
Jocelyn heard the sounds of plastic bags rustling from what she assumed was the kitchen.
“Francine?”
Cash Rigo pulled up short when he entered the living room. He looked at Jocelyn, then his wife. He had definitely aged and put on about twenty pounds. His cheeks were fuller, his skin beginning to wrinkle. His brown hair showed strands of gray here and there. He didn’t look as fresh as he had in the photo Sydney had taken of him. He was still an attractive man, but he seemed to have lost the shine of youth. He looked tired and insubstantial. Not what Jocelyn expected of a murder suspect. But that was just the thing, wasn’t it? Murderers hardly ever looked murderous.
Francine stood quickly when she saw him, hands still covering her belly. “Honey,” she said. “This is Jocelyn Rush.”
He stepped forward, an uncertain smile on his face, and extended a hand. “Cash Rigo.”
Jocelyn stood and shook his hand.
“She’s here about Sydney Adams,” Francine explained.
Cash’s hand went limp in Jocelyn’s. He pulled it away, face ashen. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
“She’s not with the police,” Francine assured him quickly.
Jocelyn smiled and told him about the scholarship program and fundraiser. “We were hoping you could speak,” she finished. “Talk about the kind of person Sydney was, that sort of thing.”
Cash swallowed again as the color returned to his face. Francine moved closer to him and touched his hand. He looked at her face, a genuine smile breaking across his own.
“It’s in a few weeks. Plenty of time to come up with something. What do you think?” Francine asked.
He looked back at Jocelyn. “Uh sure, I could do that.”
“You remember Sydney, right?” Francine added, her tone bland.
His gaze flickered to his wife momentarily, his face paling again. Jocelyn couldn’t tell if it was panic or incredulity, but he quickly regained his composure. He managed a tight smile for Jocelyn’s sake. “Of course I do.”
March 5, 2000
Cash Rigo had never been so angry. Not even when he was a teenager, and his little brother totaled the brand new car he’d spent three summers saving for—working for a landscaping business with a shitty boss who was as stupid as he was tyrannical. Or when his best friend made a pass at his wife two weeks before their wedding.
But today his wife had crossed a line.
“Calm down,” she told him as they stood arguing in their living room. It was like telling a tsunami not to crash onto shore. He couldn’t stop himself. His whole body burned and shook with rage. His face was on fire.
Francine put her hands up, a tiny worry line creasing the skin above her nose. “Cash, please.”
But he was a category five hurricane, an F-5 tornado bearing down on their home. He could not be slowed, mollified or reasoned with. A guttural cry issued from his throat as he upended the coffee table, shattering the glass vase with multi-colored marbles in its base and fake flowers in its neck. Francine’s heavy, hardcover coffee table books—a book of Picasso’s art, a book of historical sites in and around Philadelphia, and a photography collection of natural disasters—flew through the air, tumbling in a blur of pages. The sharp corner of one of them landed on top of Francine’s left foot. She was wearing black flats, the delicate skin atop her instep exposed. She let out a yowl and leaped onto the couch, as though escaping a mouse. She clasped her foot with both hands.
“Cash!” she cried.
He kicked the debris scattered on the floor. He didn’t look at his wife. He couldn’t. If he looked at her face, he didn’t know what he’d do.
“How could you?” he hollered, pacing before her. Glass shards from the vase crunched beneath his sneakers. “Why? Why would you bring our personal lives to work like that?”
It wasn’t the first time she’d done it, but it was certainly the worst thing she’d ever shared at their place of employment.
“I was confiding in a friend,” Francine offered.
“A friend?” Cash spat. “Since when is Terri Marvin a friend?”
“Since her husband has trouble getting it up too.” Her words were the sound of the first crack of thunder shattering the pregnant stillness after a lightning strike.
He went after her, jumping like a large feral cat pouncing on its prey. He knocked her backward, curling both hands around her throat and squeezing for all he was worth. The couch back couldn’t hold their combined weight. It flipped, throwing them across the room. He was vaguely aware of the strangled gasp as Francine’s head and back slammed against the living room wall. His hands had come away from her throat in the fall, and now they searched blindly for the soft flesh, raking over her waist, her breasts, tearing at her clothes.
She kicked at him, trying to crawl away, her breath wheezy. Their struggle dislodged the large, wooden decorative sign on the wall above them. The one that said Welcome to Our Happily Ever After. It crashed down on his head, and he threw his arms up to shield himself. The sign bounced off him and tumbled toward his wife, the corner of it hitting her square in the right eye.
Her hands flew to her face, covering her eye. She screamed—an otherworldly howl of pain that instantly brought to mind images of his wife disfigured, with a pulpy, ruined eye, the soft orb pierced by a piece of wood from the sign. The stuff of B-grade horror movies.
“Oh my God, Francine!” he cried. The rage inside him dissipated like a puff of steam, gone instantly. “Francine! Oh my God, Fran. I’m sorry. Let me see your eye. Oh my God, Fran.”
He pulled at her wrists, but she jerked away from him as though he were a live wire, shocking her and sending a scorching current through her whole body. “Don’t touch me,” she shrieked.
She pressed her back into the wall, her legs moving like pistons against the carpet, trying in vain to put some distance between them.
“Fran,” he implored. “Please. Please let me help you. I am so sorry. I don’t know—I wasn’t thinking. I—I—”
Gently this time, he touched her wrists, but she pulled away again. She turned her face, staring at him with her good eye, that eye wide with terror and wet with tears.
Instantly, he felt like the biggest piece of shit on the planet. Just like always. He had failed her again. He had sinned again. He had once more cemented a place for himself in the annals of shitty husbandry. Like when they were seniors in college, and he’d left her alone in their apartment so he could study for finals with the hot girl from his Medieval History class. Now he couldn’t even remember the girl’s goddamn name. Francine had begged him to stay in that night. She hadn’t felt well, was coming down with the flu, and had even offered to help him study. But he didn’t want to stay. So while he was getting a blow job from the hot girl in the library stairwell, someone broke into their apartment and raped Francine.
He had arrived back at their apartment to find police officers and EMTs crowding their small living room. The EMTs took Francine to the hospital, where the doctors did a rape kit. Then she gave a lengthy statement to police. Unfortunately, it had been so dark she was unable to give a good description of the guy. Even with DNA, the police had never found the guy. For months, Francine lived in terror that her attacker would return. Cash had found them another apartment, and even though she felt safer there, she was still plagued with anxiety. The entire ordeal had taken them over a year to recover from. He hadn’t been able to take it anymore—her brooding, her anger, her frigidity. When he told her that he wanted to end things, she took thirty Percocet tablets and locked herself in their bathroom.
Their mutual friends had castigated him, saying that he had abandoned her in her darkest hour, tossing her aside like garbage when she could no longer fulfill his every need, reinforcing every horrible thing she suspected about herself after the rape: that she was dirty, used up, damaged goods. Unwanted.
Cash did not want to be that guy.
So he had stayed, and they worked through it. Things had slowly gotten better. There was an incident with her niece just before their wedding, but she seemed to get past that quickly. They never even talked about it after the wedding. Then she got pregnant. He wasn’t thrilled about the pregnancy. He wasn’t ready for kids. He could barely manage himself, barely keep Francine happy, which was a full-time job. How would he deal with a child? But Francine was happier than he had seen her in years. Finally. And the sex. It was the dirtiest, kinkiest sex Cash had ever had.
