Mistaken Identity (A Lucinda Pierce Mystery) Page 5

  The receptionist held up a finger, signaling her to wait a moment, but Lucinda turned away as if she hadn’t seen it and hurried down the hall. She pulled a pen from her bag and slid it into the handle of the mug. She slipped the mug into a paper evidence bag with care, making sure not to spill any of the quarter inch of coffee in the bottom. She placed it in her shoulder satchel, securing it in a corner, praying it wouldn’t overturn as she made her way out of the building.

  As she picked up her recorder, Jennifer stepped into the doorway. She cleared her throat and said, “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  Lucinda wiggled the recorder in her hand. “Got it,” she said, maneuvering past the young woman and heading for the door. She tensed, expecting someone to call out and stop her. She did not relax until she was out of the building and in her car. Now all I have to do is con Audrey into processing this sample.

  Nine

  Pamela Godfrey felt betrayed by her own philosophy of life and men: When it costs you little, give it freely and then demand payment that far exceeds the value of the gift. She developed it first with her father. She awarded him a few smiles, the outward display of good behavior and a willingness to pretend total dependence. As a result, he never said no to anything.

  It was no small feat. Her father, a prominent attorney, was known for his shrewd negotiation skills, his powerful courtroom presence and his ruthless ambition to win. Many feared him. All respected him – except for his own daughter who viewed him as nothing more than a ready source of cash and expensive gifts.

  The same tricks, with the added tool of sex given or withheld, gave her dominance over the young men she met in college. She also discovered older men – the professors, the successful alumni, and local businessmen had far more to offer than students. She used them, got what she wanted and tossed them aside. If they tried to hang on after she discarded them, hissed threats of scandal made each one back away. In the process, she became adept at the arts of seduction and subtle manipulation.

  After graduation, she applied these skills to building her business. It took no effort to obtain start-up money and a prime section of the law business floor from her father. He even referred clients without her asking. She bound them to her with contracts sealed in bed. Yet not one of them ever seemed to suspect he was not the only one. Was she that clever? Or was the power of denial even stronger than any loyalty she could conjure?

  Along the way, they showered her with gifts of expensive jewelry, exotic trips and company stock. Her net worth grew at an extraordinary rate. Whenever she wanted a little extra cash, she pulled a bauble not to her taste from the safe and sold it to a jeweler friend who gave her more than good business sense dictated in gratitude for a semi-annual tumble.

  The ease with which she used them all left her with no respect for any man. She held most women in contempt, too. They struggled and strived for influence and money, neglecting to use this birthright advantage to exert control over the men with power who stood in their way.

  But, now, Pamela’s confidence suffered serious injury. She harbored a secret that made her vulnerable – a secret that tied her to the murders at James Landing. The hot blast of that gritty reality rocked her sense of impregnability.

  The police lieutenant seemed immune to intimidation or manipulation. Her vulnerability was her damaged face and her prosthetic eye but Pamela had not yet figured out to use that to her advantage. Pointed comments about her flaws might throw her momentarily off balance but it was not enough. She had to keep that woman from sussing out her secret, but how?

  She entered her condo that evening cursing her weakness, abusing herself for falling in love. Images of that beloved body taunted her – filling her with longing and dread. She went straight to the cabinet where she hid her cherished photographs, letters and other mementoes and carried them to her home office.

  After emptying her shredder bin into the trash, she fed through every scrap of paper. She lined a bathroom sink with a triple thickness of aluminum foil and burned the shreds a handful at a time. She smashed, twisted or mutilated anything that wouldn’t burn and tossed it on the ashes. She folded up the foil and slid it into a Bloomingdale’s shopping bag. Pulling a piece of tissue paper from a shelf, she artfully crumpled it and arranged it atop the wadded bundle.

  She walked back to her car, the bag swinging on her fingertips. Then she drove off to find a dumpster miles away – one that was at a great enough distance that, if found, could never be connected to her and her love.

  Ten

  Back at the headquarters, Lucinda stood in front of the double doors to the forensics lab clutching the evidence bag containing the improperly obtained coffee cup. She knew if she did nothing to annoy Audrey, she’d have a far better chance of getting the mug into the queue without any awkward questions. She reminded herself to weigh every word before speaking and to make sure she didn’t address Audrey by her first name.

  She took a deep breath, pushed open the door and spotted Audrey right away – she was impossible to miss. She wore one of her signature bright-colored suits. And today’s screaming hue was hot pink – extremely hot. Paired with Audrey’s flaming red hair, it looked explosive. The color was so intense it seemed to saturate its surroundings, adding a blush to the clear glassware in the lab.

  Lucinda attempted to suppress any sign of surprise at Audrey’s attire but knew she had failed when the Forensics Lab Director turned her way and spoke. “Did you know that in the Victorian Age, proper women did not wear pink? It was considered too strong a color for the female and was solely the province of men? Because of that past prohibition, I feel a strong sense of empowerment when I wear it. You could use some of that in your wardrobe, Pierce, instead of all those drab house sparrow colors. And it certainly wouldn’t hurt if you got some highlights or some other treatment to put a bit of pizzazz in your hair.”

  Lucinda swallowed the retort that sprang to her lips. “Doctor Ringo, you certainly bring a bright note to these utilitarian surroundings.”

  Audrey rolled her eyes. “Okay, Pierce. Out with it. What do you want?”

  “I have a mug that I need tested for a DNA profile. There’s still a little coffee in the bottom but I was afraid I’d contaminate the sample is I poured it out.”

  “Oh, my, you are capable of sentient thought. What an unexpected surprise,” Audrey said and peered closely at Lucinda’s face. “That last round of reconstruction didn’t go too well, did it?”

  “If you don’t need anything else, Doctor Ringo, I’ll get your signature on the property form and get out of your hair.”

  “You know, I’ve never liked you, Pierce. But I like you even less on those rare occasions when you maintain a firm grip on your self-control.”

  Lucinda wanted to snap back, but she knew the consequences – Audrey would look at the form carefully, she’d note the location of the sample retrieval and she’d ask awkward questions.

  As she scrawled her signature across the document, Audrey asked, “What exactly are you looking for here?”

  Lucinda could have directed her to the paperwork – the answer was there. Instead she said, “I want this sample compared to any DNA found at the Sterling double homicide that does not belong to either victim.”

  “I certainly hope this is the last of the DNA requests for this case. Spellman brought in a mountain of samples. You are really taxing our resources with this one case.”

  “Well, I’ll let you get to work, “Lucinda said, turning and making a fast exit. She retreated to her office, hoping for a few moments of solitude to gather her thoughts and plan the next steps in the investigation.

  Downstairs, at the switchboard, the operator picked up an incoming call. “Justice Center.”

  “Is Lieutenant Lucinda Pierce in?” Doctor Rambo Burns asked.

  “May I tell her who’s calling?”

  “No. That won’t work. Listen, this is her doctor but if you tell her it’s me, she’ll tell you to tell me she’s not in. And it’s importan
t for her to talk to me but she’s a really stubborn woman.”

  “Tell me about it,” the operator said with a chuckle. “Hold on. She won’t like it but I’ll see what I can do.”

  The intercom buzzed at Lucinda’s desk. “Line two, Lieutenant.”

  “Who is it?” Lucinda asked but all she got was the click of a disconnecting line. “Damn.” She pressed the button for the front desk operator. It rang and rang until Lucinda got impatient and pressed in the button for line two. “Pierce.”

  “Lucinda, this is Rambo.” When she did not respond, he added, “Doctor Rambo Burns.”

  “Like you think I know a whole lot of Rambos. Geez, doc. Later. Why do you need to talk to me anyway? I am not having another surgical procedure.”

  “Because Charley wants you to talk to me.”

  “Oh, good, Doctor. When bedside manner doesn’t work, just grab hold of a little girl and beat me over the head with her. Charley has nothing to do with my decision.”

  “I know that.”

  “So why did you bring her up?”

  “We had a barbecue over at the house this weekend and Evan came with his two girls. Charley took me aside wanting assurances that I was taking care of you. I tried to avoid telling her anything but that kid sticks to the point like a good hunting dog. You know what I mean?”

  Lucinda grinned, in spite of herself. “That sounds like my Charley.”

  “Well, I told her there wasn’t much I could do if you didn’t want treatment but that wasn’t good enough for her. She said, ‘What kind of doctor are you? When she acts all tough about stuff, it’s because she’s scared. And that means she needs you. So go do your job and take care of her.’ So, I promised I’d call. I really wish you’d just come in and talk with me.”

  “Waste of time. I’m not going to get another procedure.”

  “Fine. If that’s your decision, I’ll accept it. But before I do, you need to understand what’s been done, the limitations of your current condition and the possibilities for the future. Then you can make an informed decision.”

  “It’s really a waste of time.”

  “C’mon, Lucinda. Just show me the kind of professional courtesy or respect you’d show to one of your law enforcement peers or a supervisor.”

  “Wrong assumption, Doc. Ask around. I’m not known for my charm among my colleagues and I’m well known for my pissy attitude toward my superiors.”

  “Fine. Show me the same respect you’d show Charley.”

  “You’re playing dirty, Doctor Burns. Don’t use that girl to get what you want.”

  “I could’ve had her call you and give you a hard time – that would be playing dirty. All I’m asking for is conversation.”

  “Fine. Because that’s all you’re going to get. I’ll call the office tomorrow and set up a time.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. I’m sure to be in a crappy mood when I get there,” she said, dropping the receiver into the cradle.

  Ted stuck his head in Lucinda’s cubicle and said, “Hey, you wanna grab a drink – or two – maybe even dinner?”

  “What about your wife, Ted? How long has it been since you visited her? Maybe you ought to go have dinner with her in the hospital dining room instead of coming in here and pissing me off.”

  “Lucinda, why do you care about her? She wanted to shoot you, for crying out loud.”

  Lucinda pointed a rigid index finger in his direction. “Ted, don’t you start. I am not in the mood. And you will not win this one.”

  Ted raised his hands in mock surrender and backed out of the room.

  Lucinda watched him but was not amused. She knew she was not fit company for anyone just now – maybe not even for her cat, Chester.

  Eleven

  Lucinda ended the day by trying to reach Jason King on his cell and at his mother’s home phone. Each call went to voicemail but she chose not to leave a message. She arrived in the office just past six the next morning and started her day the same way. With the time difference, it was five a.m. in Texas but still she got no answer.

  Where do I go from here? Lucinda wondered. She’d hoped to clear up some of the mystery by talking to Jason – it seemed like a logical next step. Blocked from doing that, she knew she couldn’t sit still waiting for it to happen.

  It was a challenge to plan the steps of a successful investigation when the identity of the victim was uncertain. But is it really? Can’t I discount Freddy’s odd story as the product of an overactive imagination? No. His grandmother pushed the same tall tale. Is she the origin of it? Did she craft it out of animosity toward her son-in-law? Or does she actually believe it?

  Did Jason King plant that piece of outrageous fiction in her head? Is she that gullible? And how did he latch on to Victoria Whitehead? And why?

  Lucinda knew she needed to talk to Victoria again but before she did, she wanted to know more about her. Freddy wouldn’t be a good source – boys don’t typically know much about their grandmothers’ lives. Her daughter Jeanine was dead. That left her with Jason. A complete circle into a brick wall.

  Lucinda knew a lot of her questions would be cleared up when she had the DNA test results but that required time. Besides, she knew that with the answers she would get an equally long list of new questions. She needed to go walk through the Sterling house – revisiting the crime scene always refocused her thinking and sparked new ideas. She stood and then remembered her promise to Dr. Burns to call his office this morning and set an appointment. Before she could honor that commitment, the intercom squawked. “Line three, Lieutenant. It’s a lawyer named Richard Barksdale.”

  “What does he want with me?”

  “He said he represented Ellen Branson.”

  “Thanks,” she said, snatching the receiver. “Pierce here. What can I do for you?”

  “Lieutenant, thanks for taking my call. I wanted to talk to you because Ellen Branson has a competency hearing next week.”

  “Mr. Barksdale, as much as I would like to do anything I could for Ellen, I don’t think I can be much help to you. Everything I know about Ellen prior to that morning would be hearsay – I got it all from her estranged husband.”

  “But you could testify about the notes she left on your car.”

  “Yes, I could. And if you think it would help, I’ll be glad to do it. But to me, that makes it sound premeditated, as if she were capable of thinking clearly. I can testify to her actions that morning but when I get to the point that she made me kneel on the ground and held a gun to my head, it won’t make the judge very happy. Ted would know more about her state of mind – her disordered, paranoid thoughts – that led to the incident.”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Branson has not been very cooperative. He usually doesn’t accept or return my calls and he was all ready to begin divorce proceedings until his attorney told him it would be better if he waited until after next week’s hearing.”

  “Damn him.”

  “Do you have any influence with Mr. Branson?”

  “If I did, counselor, he’d be falling all over you to help Ellen.”

  “Can I count on you being there? It’s only a hearing so hearsay is not as cut and dried as it is at trial.”

  “I’ll be there. Just give me the time and the place.” Lucinda jotted the information down in her calendar and left her desk without calling the doctor’s office.

  Lucinda entered the Sterling family home with the quiet reverence she otherwise reserved for entering a church after the service had begun. In her mind, it was hallowed ground – sacred to the memory of the two victims who waited on her to find justice. She tossed out any doubts she had about the male’s identity and thought of her two victims as Jeanine and Parker while she walked through the house.

  Downstairs, the only dishevelment in the home was the direct result of the search and confiscation of possible evidence. Smears of fingerprint powder marred the surfaces of door frames and knobs as well as table tops and edg
es. The living room was otherwise immaculate. Board heart of pine planks stretched across the floor to the stone hearth of the fireplace. The antique furniture looked lovely – and costly – but not comfortable for anything but a short chat.

  The hardwood floors continued into the dining area. A long walnut table and ornate chairs with cushioned seats filled the center of the room. Hanging above it was an elaborate, crystal-laden chandelier. Straight ahead were French doors leading out to a spacious deck. A matching china closet and buffet lined up on one side of the room. On the opposite wall, a generous archway led into the kitchen. Both the living and dining rooms had a sterile, model home feel.

  The kitchen was another story. It was a huge space enlivened by a sunny breakfast nook capable of seating at least six. An almost empty glass with a quarter inch of curdling chocolate milk stood sentinel by a plate littered with toast crumbs and a buttered knife. The remaining place mats were clean and bare. It appeared as if Freddy ate there the last morning of his parents’ lives. She’d have to ask him about that.

  A recycled glass countertop and walnut cabinets curled around the kitchen. The backsplash was an artful arrangement of recycled glass tiles. The copper-clad bottoms of skillets and saucepans winked at her from the wrought-iron pot rack hanging over the stainless stovetop on a spacious island. Cheerful red and yellow towels hung from hooks hung at one end.

  Bright tropical fish magnets attached recipes, notes, cards and photos to the front of the oversized refrigerator. At the far end of the counter sat a built-in secretary desk, its top folded down and smeared with black powder, its contents looted and disorderly. Above it was a glass-fronted cabinet filled with assorted whimsical salt and pepper shakers. Lucinda smiled when she saw a pair of penguins that reminded her of the ones that sat in a place of honor in her mother’s kitchen.

  The ambiance in the kitchen embodied the essence of home – all of the memories and comfort of the idealized vision that beckons bruised hearts. Lucinda knew this was the essence of Jeanine. That awareness transformed Jeanine from a victim to a real person – so real that Lucinda could almost hear her voice.