False Front (Lucinda Pierce) Page 6

  Sandra Goodman stood near the front door as Jake walked into the office. She made a show of looking at her wristwatch and said, ‘Keeping bankers’ hours, are we, Agent Lovett?’

  Jake clenched his jaw, biting off his words before he could speak them. He was determined not to get defensive or squabble with her in front of his staff. ‘My office, please, Director Goodman?’ he said as he walked past her.

  ‘Something to hide, Agent Lovett?’

  He didn’t pause or turn around, refusing to respond to her baiting in any way. He went straight to his office, walked around to the other side of his desk and folded his arms on his chest.

  She walked in and stopped in front of his desk, planting her palms on its surface and leaning towards him. ‘Start talking.’

  ‘Please close the door,’ Jake asked.

  She snorted. ‘Paranoid, aren’t we?’

  Jake did not respond until she turned around and pushed the door shut. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I think you know, Agent Lovett.’

  ‘Please ask me specific questions, Director. I’ve been up most of the night and want to tell you exactly what you want to know.’

  ‘Why didn’t you inform me immediately that you were a person of interest in a murder case?’

  ‘I am not a person of interest in a murder case.’

  ‘Really? So why did you rush to the scene and answer the investigator’s questions?’

  ‘To help the investigation.’

  ‘Out of the goodness of your heart? Out of camaraderie with local law enforcement? Out of an idealistic vision of your mission?’

  ‘Because I might have information relevant to the death investigation.’

  ‘You mean, you wanted to insinuate yourself into the case, hoping to ensure that their inquiries were directed away from you.’

  ‘What are you getting at, Director?’

  ‘You were possibly the last person to see this man alive, correct?’

  ‘Possibly but unlikely. Too much time had elapsed.’

  ‘Your business card was found in his pocket, correct?’

  ‘Yes. He’d been to see me that afternoon.’

  ‘Step out of your own skin for a moment, Agent Lovett. Let’s say you arrived at the scene of a murder victim. The victim has no identification on him. He has no cell phone. Nothing but another person’s business card in his pocket. Wouldn’t that person be a person of interest?’

  Jake felt a tightening in his sternum but gave an honest answer anyway. ‘Yes, he would.’

  ‘Would you not suspect this person was the possible perpetrator?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘Bullshit, Agent Lovett. You definitely would. Where were you last night at the time of the crime?’

  ‘Home. In bed.’

  ‘Any witnesses to verify that claim?’

  Jake flushed. ‘No.’

  ‘Any calls to your home landline at that time?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any calls on that line at all that evening?’

  ‘No. Only on my cell.’

  ‘It’s clear to me, then, that you are a suspect.’

  ‘Did you talk to the sheriff?’

  She ignored him. ‘You are a suspect – at least until a better lead comes along. If you are involved in this investigation in any way, it will be compromised. Can’t you see yourself on the witness stand now? The defense asks: “Agent Lovett, wasn’t it in your best interests to divert suspicion to my client? Wasn’t that the only way to take the investigation away from your activities on the night in question?” Wouldn’t that be dandy?’

  Jake wanted to object but realized it was a valid point. Once the defense learned of his business card in the victim’s pocket, he would be a possible vehicle for creating reasonable doubt.

  ‘And this report you wrote about your meeting with Rowland? Doesn’t it read like a plan to discredit him? To make him appear irrational, disturbed and somehow contributing to his own demise? “He appeared to be consumed by a conspiracy theory that was only in his mind.” You wrote that, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And just how do you feel about his “paranoid delusions” now, Agent Lovett?’

  ‘I think they had a stronger basis in reality than I suspected.’

  ‘You know what I think? It’s either a stupid assessment or a crafty one. And you’ve never struck me as a stupid person, Agent Lovett. That makes crafty the more likely conclusion.’

  ‘Director Goodman, it was a faulty judgment. There was no malevolence or hidden purpose behind that report.’

  Goodman spun away from his desk and turned her back to him.

  Jake waited, wanting to rush to his own defense but knowing he didn’t dare.

  She turned back. ‘I wish I could believe you. I want to believe you. But at this point in time, I just don’t know. For that reason, you will distance yourself from this investigation immediately. You will turn over every scrap of paper and tidbit of information you’ve obtained to the Hanover County Sheriff’s Department. You are to tell them to feel free to ask you any questions but to take care not to provide you with any investigative information or to involve you in a law enforcement capacity.’

  ‘But I told Sheriff Cummings—’

  ‘I do not care what you told him. You will now tell him you are out of the investigation. Is that clear? And I do not want you in the field investigating any case until we put this all to rest.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘If I find out you’ve disobeyed this order – and I don’t care if it’s all praise for your heroic, single-handed solving of the case – you can say goodbye to the FBI. I will see to that. You will be a dead man in our eyes – but we won’t mourn your passing, we’ll spit on your grave.’

  Jake watched her back as she strode out of the room. He doubted she had as much power as she wanted him to believe and fear. Her over-the-top dramatic flourish at the end of her little speech told him that. Nonetheless, for now, he’d appear compliant. He’d lay low for a while, ready to make a move if it became necessary. On his personal scale of justice, a victim always outweighed the bureaucracy.

  TWELVE

  Lucinda lifted the yellow crime scene tape across the three steps leading to the landing at the front door. She pulled off the seal on the door and let herself back into the Eagleton home. For her, the best time at the scene of a murder was after the evidence was collected, the people all gone, the bustle at an end. Now she could absorb the environment without distraction.

  If the unknown client scheduled for a meeting at 9 a.m. that morning was the person who killed her, how could it have played out? She imagined that Candace could have left the door unlocked in anticipation of her visitor. That person arrived early, snuck upstairs and surprised her as she prepared for the meeting.

  Alternatively, Candace could have come downstairs at the sound of the doorbell, opened it for her visitor and been chased or retreated upstairs when she sensed danger. Or she could have gone back upstairs for another purpose? But what could that be? Or she could have been taken upstairs by force? That was unlikely. Evidence of the application of force was only seen by the small marks by and on the inside of the bedroom door frame.

  Is it possible that ‘client’ was a code name for ‘lover?’ Was Candace having a surreptitious sexual encounter that went wrong? She did take great pains with her personal preparations for the meeting – well-dressed, make-up and perfume. Her outfit, though, wasn’t flirtatious or seductive. Candace was dressed for success. Someone she wanted to impress was due to arrive that morning.

  But what if that was the image she wanted to project to a lover? What if he came and then went upstairs? What could have gone wrong? She could have planned the meeting to dump him. To tell him it was over. That would have explained the clothing she wore. And then in a fit of rage, he . . .

  No. It was not a crime of passion. It was too clinical. Too planned. Too precisely staged. Lucinda walked up
the stairs and crossed half across the arched walkway. She looked down into the foyer. She imagined Candace shouting, ‘Come in, the door’s open,’ from a position in this spot. Possible if it were a lover. Not likely if it were a client.

  What if Frank Eagleton stumbled on this illicit tryst? If so, wouldn’t Candace be naked or at least partially unclothed? But still, it does not appear to be a crime of passion. That would mean Frank knew about the affair. Knew and planned the killing in advance.

  She pulled out her cell and called the morgue. ‘Doc Sam, please?’

  ‘Who is this and what do you want?’ a gravelly voice grumbled.

  ‘And top o’ the morning to you, Doc Sam.’

  ‘Pierce? I was getting ready to call you.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You first. Why did you call?’

  ‘I wanted to know if you saw any indication that Candace Eagleton was dressed after her death.’

  After a long pause, Doc Sam said, ‘No. And thinking back, I do not recall anything to indicate that. I’ll look over the photos and see if I can find anything I missed.’

  ‘Sure would surprise me if you did,’ Lucinda said.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m just full of surprises.’

  ‘Why did you want to call me, Doc?’

  ‘I found a possible injection site on the back of her hand. I dissected the area and I am certain of it.’

  ‘Injection of what?’

  ‘Won’t know until we get the toxicology back. But I did locate her primary care physician. She hadn’t visited him in the last couple of days. It could have been another doctor but he doubted it. He said she always came to him for a referral before going to any specialist.’

  ‘That it?’

  ‘No. There were two dislocated finger joints. Obviously happened just before death because there wasn’t sufficient time for any swelling to set in.’

  ‘Sounds like force was used to subdue her for that injection.’

  ‘Works for me. Now stop yakking on the phone and go find this woman’s killer. And don’t disappoint me. I put down the husband in the office pool.’

  ‘So it is a homicide?’

  ‘I only bet on sure things.’

  ‘You actually have an office pool for murder victims?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe I’m just jerking your chain.’

  Doc Sam hung up before she could respond. She stared at her phone. It had to be a joke – a sick morgue joke. Wasn’t it? Did it even matter? Doc Sam just obliterated the slightest microscopic trace of doubt from her mind – this was homicide, not suicide.

  She walked into Candace’s bedroom, turned and faced the doorway. Staring at the spot marked by the victim’s fingernails, Lucinda imagined her struggling, grabbing anything to escape. Did she scream? She must have – Lucinda could hear it echo in the well of her imagination.

  Did anyone hear her? Colter had done the prerequisite door-to-door. Lucinda thought if she’d found anything of interest, she would have called and let her know. She’d have to check with her.

  Her cell rang again. She looked at the screen – her office number. Assuming it was Colter calling, she answered with: ‘Sergeant Colter?’

  She was greeted with a titter. ‘Oh, Lieutenant Pierce, you are so funny.’

  Kristen. What now? ‘Yes, Kristen, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Not a thing for me,’ she giggled. ‘But there’s a Mark Eagleton here and he wants to talk to you. He asked me to call and see if you’ll be returning soon.’

  ‘Frank and Candace’s son?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Kristen said.

  ‘Ask him. Please,’ Lucinda said, trying and failing to hide her exasperation.

  Lucinda heard mumbled voices and then Kristen said, ‘Yes, he is. How did you know that?’

  ‘Tell him I’m almost finished here. I’ll be back just as soon as I can.’ Kristen was still talking when Lucinda hit the end button.

  She crossed the walkway over to Frank’s bedroom and pulled open the top drawer of his dresser. There, under a stack of silk boxer shorts, she found the passport right where she remembered. Where to hide it – correction, misplace it? If she knew what he’d worn the last time he flew out of the country, she could slide it in a pocket. But she didn’t. Where else might he leave it? She could guess but she knew it was too easy to get it wrong.

  Maybe it should look intentional. Candace could have taken it. Hidden it. She snatched the passport and carried it across the walkway. Lifting Candace’s mattress, she slid it in as deep as she could. If it wasn’t the last place he’d look for it, Candace’s bedroom certainly wouldn’t be the first. She might not stop him from fleeing the country but she sure could slow him down.

  Downstairs, she paused for a moment and looked up at the railing where the rope around Candace’s neck had been tied. ‘I’ll find out why you died, Candace. And I’ll find out who did it. I promise.’

  She felt the pressure of a commitment made land heavily on her shoulders. She wriggled her shoulders as if balancing an unseen load and walked out of the home determined to keep her word.

  THIRTEEN

  Mark Eagleton looked very much like his father, Lucinda thought as she watched him through the glass. Same broad shoulders, trim, fit body, prominent lower lip and startling blue eyes. Impatience creased his brow line and put his fingers in motion, drumming the surface of the desk.

  Opening the door to the Spartan room, she said, ‘Mr Eagleton. Lieutenant Lucinda Pierce. You have my utmost sympathy for your loss. It doesn’t get much worse than losing your mother to an act of violence.’

  He responded to her extended hand with a firm handshake. ‘Trying to disarm me with empathy?’

  ‘Now, why would I want to disarm you?’

  ‘Perhaps you think I killed my mother. Or perhaps you think I have knowledge that points to my father as the killer. You’re wrong on both counts.’

  ‘Mr Eagleton, my expression of sympathy was genuine. I do understand the magnitude of your loss.’

  ‘Nice – an implication that you have walked in my shoes without insulting me with an actual lie. As if you really knew what it was like to learn your mother was brutally murdered.’

  ‘Actually, I do, Mr Eagleton. My mother was murdered,’ Lucinda said.

  Mark gave her a hard stare. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you there?’

  Lucinda forced down the lump in her throat and kept her expression blank. ‘Yes. Yes I was.’

  ‘Is that when you injured your face?’

  ‘We are not here to discuss my past trauma, Mr Eagleton, but the answer is no. I only shared that information with you in hope that you would accept my sincerity and realize that I am not here to play games with you or trick you in any way. We are here to share information together and nothing more.’

  ‘When will you release my mother’s body?’

  ‘That is out of my hands at the moment. When all the necessary information is gathered for the autopsy report, you’ll be informed and a funeral home can transport the body for the service.’

  ‘I guess it’s taking longer because Mom wanted to be cremated.’

  ‘Actually, that’s not the case. We were unaware of her wishes.’

  ‘I’ll have to take your word for that, I suppose. You’re certain it’s not suicide?’

  ‘You think it might be?’ Lucinda asked.

  ‘Nothing she did would surprise me.’

  ‘What do you mean by that, Mr Eagleton?’

  ‘Please, call me Mark. When you say Mr Eagleton, I think my dad’s in the room.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you be surprised by a suicide, Mark?’

  ‘My mother was unpredictable. Moody. Overly dramatic.’

  ‘Difficult to live with?’

  ‘Most definitely. I don’t know how my dad stood it sometimes.’

  ‘According to your father, he loved her.’

  ‘Yes. There was that. He seemed to
dote on her. For the life of me, I don’t understand why. Sure, I loved her. She was my mom. But as an adult, I’ve stepped back and looked at her objectively. If she were my wife, I’d go nuts. I’d either kill myself or kill her. I couldn’t take it.’

  ‘Is that what you think happened here? Your father just couldn’t take it any longer?’

  Mark drew back. ‘Absolutely not. That was a figure of speech and besides I was talking about me and not my dad. There is no way . . .’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh, I see. You’ve talked to my sister, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘She always took mom’s side. She thought Dad was a tyrant. He wasn’t.’

  ‘Molly said that your mother had a plan. She was about to leave your father.’

  ‘Oh, please. Where would she go? How could she possibly maintain that elevated lifestyle she enjoys so much?’ Mark paused and squinted his eyes. ‘Unless she found another man. Is that what happened?’

  ‘At this point, we have no evidence pointing to that conclusion.’

  ‘Which means you’re considering the possibility?’

  ‘We’re considering all the possibilities, Mark. What if she did have a plan . . .?’

  ‘My mother always had a plan. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. And she never worried about the legality of any of her whacked-out ideas.’

  ‘Meaning . . .?’

  ‘When I was seventeen, she found a small stash of pot in my room. Typical teenage experimentation was all it was. But my mom was anything but typical. She offered to bankroll me if I wanted to be entrepreneurial with it.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Lucinda asked.

  ‘She said she’d give me upfront money if I wanted to deal. She explained how I could give people good value for their dollar and be able to have all the pot I wanted for my own use at no cost.’

  Mother of the Year, Lucinda thought. ‘Was she serious?’

  ‘Seemed like it to me. She made a budget, calculated revenue projections and did a risk assessment analysis. She figured I could stay in business until I went to college with minimal risk of being arrested if I were careful. Then, she thought I could re-establish my enterprise wherever I went. She also assured me that Dad could buy my way out of any trouble I encountered. When she said that, I understood.’