Her Sister's Keeper

“But no evidence of foul play?”

“None. Blood was clean, body was clean. If it was poison, I don’t know what the hell it was, but give me five minutes with this one in the morgue and I can tell y’all whether it’s the same as the other,” T. Ray said.

Kent glanced around. A pacifier lay on the floor near the body. A baby blanket was draped over the desk chair. And a baby bottle half-full of milk was on the side table. “What the hell happened to the baby?” he muttered to himself.

“That,” Murphy responded, “is something we’re trying to find out as soon as possible. We’re hoping the infant is with its mother, but we can’t locate Ariel Moore to confirm that.” Murphy’s cell phone rang, and she turned away to answer it.

Kent didn’t bother to listen in. He was far more interested in gathering as much information, tangible and intangible, from the scene as possible. The two deaths bore too many similarities not to be connected. If T. Ray suspected poisoning, that meant someone had killed them. He knew the sooner he could start building a behavioral profile of the killer, the faster they could capture whoever was doing this and, hopefully, prevent more killings.

Members of the crime lab were entering the room in a steady stream, dusting for prints, shooting photos and hunting for any trace evidence the killer may have left behind. Soon, Kent knew, he would be perceived as in the way. Even in a state where people routinely took their pets to animal psychics, Kent’s particular contributions to the efforts of law enforcement were not always appreciated. Not everyone in the LAPD had reacted with enthusiasm to the addition of a forensic psychologist. Kent had been surprised and flattered when Murphy had stepped forward and requested he be assigned full-time to her department and, after a grueling six-month stint at the FBI facility at Quantico, given the official designation of a homicide detective to quell the growing departmental dissent. It was a move neither had ever had reason to regret.

He saw Murphy was off her cell phone and walked over to her. Knowing that her take on things was oftentimes dramatically different from his own, he wanted her initial reactions to the scene. Kent’s back was to the door and before he could ask the captain his first question, he saw Murphy glance over his shoulder and a look of irritation flash across her face.

“What’s she doing in here? This is a crime scene, not a sideshow.”

Kent turned and saw Melanie Harris standing just inside the suite’s bedroom door. It looked like he had caught her in midwave; her hand was raised but something had diverted her attention, leaving the elegant fingers floating in midair. Even as he turned toward her, he could see her eyes widening in shock. She took a sudden step backward, stumbled on the threshold and would have fallen if Kent hadn’t moved as quickly as he did.

It had been seven years since Kent had held a woman in his arms the way he was holding Melanie now. He carried the protesting woman from the room, vaguely aware of the wall of badges parting to allow him passage and Murphy’s angry voice demanding to know how a civilian had gotten access to the crime scene.

“Please, put me down, Dr. Mattson. I’ll be all right,” Melanie protested as he carried her into the adjacent bedroom. Kent set her down near the bed, aware that Murphy was right behind him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he said.

“Go scope out that room, Kent,” Murphy interrupted before Melanie could respond. “T. Ray wants to bag the body and get started on the autopsy. I’ll get the paramedics to check her out.”

Kent took advantage of Murphy’s orders and fled the room, Melanie’s distress affecting him more than he liked.

“The pretty lady okay, Doc?” T. Ray’s crooning drawl greeted Kent as he reentered the crime scene.

T. Ray was standing beside the bed, alternately staring down at the body and then scribbling in his notebook. “She’ll be fine,” Kent responded, pulling on the latex gloves Murphy had handed him in the elevator, and wondering if the same could be said of him.

“’Course she will, my man. You caught her before she could hit the floor. Smooth moves for a Beverly Hills shrink.” T. Ray lowered his pen and projected a solemn, patronizing air. “Look, I’m real glad you took my advice about getting back into the social scene, but if this is your first date, y’all could be in big trouble with that one. Pizza parlor would’ve been a better bet.” A mock frown concluded this brief lecture, then T. Ray said, “You let me know when you’re done snoopin’ around, Doc, ’cause I’m itchin’ to get to work on this one.”

There was a room-service cart draped with a white linen parked near the door. A single long- stemmed rose, apricot-colored, in a slender glass vase with a spray of baby’s breath and a sprig of leather leaf, was on the cart, along with a covered plate, a napkin, still folded and unused, several pieces of silverware and a teapot with accompanying cup and saucer.

“What did she order for room service, T. Ray?”

“Looks like a bowl of clear beef broth, some soup crackers and a pot of ginger tea. Didn’t touch any of it, though. I’m not surprised. She must’ve been pretty sick for a while, judging from how dehydrated she is.”

Kent checked out the bathroom, noting the neat array of feminine toiletries beside the sink, and the thick terry-cloth towel, damp and crumpled in a careless heap on the floor after the victim had apparently taken a shower.

“Has the bathroom been checked out?” he called to T. Ray.

“Head to tail with a fine-tooth comb. You know how Murphy is. They’ve vacuumed for hair samples and sprayed for blood, videotaped, photographed, measured and sketched. Paw around all you want, Doc, just don’t touch the body. That’s my domain.”

Kent pulled his own notebook out, annoyed by the tremble in his hand as he wrote. Melanie reminded him of Susan. There was no use denying the way she made him feel, and it wasn’t just the beauty and grace of her. There was something else, some intangible quality he couldn’t quite put his finger on…. He moved through the guest room methodically, jotting notes and making sketches, his years of police work inuring him to the buzz and bustle of activity around him until he heard Murphy speak his name. He glanced up as she strode into the room.

“How’s it going, Kent?” she said, her words terse and her dark eyes flashing with a restlessness he’d grown used to over the years.

“I’m about done here.”

“Good. Your young woman’s asking to speak with you,” she said. “The paramedics have checked her over. She’s in a state of moderate shock, not surprising considering that’s probably the first body she’s ever seen. The next time you ask a woman out, I suggest taking her to the movie theater instead.”

“She’s not my young woman,” Kent said with a flash of irritation. “She’s just a client who gave me a ride to the scene and for some reason followed me up here.”

Murphy’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “Whatever you say. I’ll have one of the officers drive her home when she’s ready. She’s in no condition to sit behind the wheel of a car. She’s pretty shaken up, though she won’t admit it.”

“Thanks. And I’m sorry about her barging in like that. I don’t know how she ever got through the barricades.”

“The officer thought she was with you. You’re forgiven, just barely. What do you make of the victim?”

Kent crouched on his heels again to examine the body. “Looks pretty much like the victim we found this morning. I’m thinking we’re going to see the same cause of death.”

“If that’s the case it will be the first real clue that these two women have a common denominator.” She straightened with a frustrated shake of her head, then touched Kent’s arm. “Better go see your young woman. She could use some professional soothing, but make it quick. I’m going to ride along with

T. Ray to the preliminary postmortem.” Kent rose to his feet, too distracted to correct Murphy for a second time about his lack of involvement with Melanie. At the present moment he didn’t feel the least bit professional, or even remotely capable of soothing another human being. The two crime scenes today, plus Melanie’s involvement, had brought back too many memories of Susan. Nonetheless, he forced himself to return to the adjacent room, where Melanie was sitting up on the edge of the bed, refusing to take the hot drink that one of Murphy’s officers was offering. As soon as Melanie spotted Kent, she rose to her feet. Her face was still very pale. Murphy was right. She was badly shaken and appeared on the verge of tears.

“It’s all right,” Kent said to Melanie, giving the officer a nod of dismissal after retrieving the mug of hot cocoa from her. “I’m sorry you had to see that, but you shouldn’t have followed me up here. This is a crime scene, and civilians aren’t allowed.”

“I…I didn’t know if you wanted me to wait for you or not….” She sat back down again. “You left so suddenly, I didn’t know what to do. I was parked in and couldn’t leave, so I thought I should find you and ask….”

Kent felt a pang of guilt. He had left her abruptly, with no explanation. “You should drink some of this,” he said, extending the mug. “It might make you feel better.”

Melanie shook her head. “Thank you, but nothing will make me feel better right now.”

Kent sighed. He set the cup on the bedside table and drew up a chair. “Look, if you think it’ll help, I’ll write out a prescription, something that you can take when you get home….”

She shook her head, then drew in a sharp, gasping breath and covered her face. She remained rigid for a few moments, then dropped her hands. Her eyes burned into his, filled with the same nameless torment he’d glimpsed in his office…only this time it was far more intense.

“You don’t understand,” she said in a voice that trembled with emotion. “My sister Ariel and I haven’t spoken in six months. I never wanted to see her again after what she did. When Stephanie called and begged me to come to the special dinner to celebrate the birth of Ari’s little girl, I…I hung up on her! Oh, God, she was my best friend. That was the last time we talked….”

Kent had to resist the urge to take Melanie into his arms when she buried her face in her hands and painful sobs shook her slender, vulnerable form. Instead, he racked his rattled brain for something soothing to say while at the same time he was processing everything she’d just said. Melanie wasn’t making any sense, but she was obviously distraught. Hadn’t Murphy said the victim’s name was Stephanie Hawke? And the movie star with the young baby was Ariel something-or-other? Was it possible that Melanie was connected in some way with this crime scene? Kent’s thoughts were jumbled.

“I’m sure she realizes why you were upset,” he said, confused. “That’s what best friends are for. Maybe you should consider calling her back and accepting that invitation to dinner. Whatever happened between your sister and yourself, it’s never too late to make amends.”

Under the circumstances, this was the best Kent could manage, but if Murphy had thought his professional training would be of some comfort to Melanie, she’d been dead wrong. Never in his entire career had Kent’s words generated such a negative response. Melanie dropped her trembling hands, raised her streaming face and stared at him for a few moments in silent shock.

“You don’t understand,” she repeated. “I’ve known Stephanie for years. She was my closest friend, yet I lost my temper with her because she befriended my sister. I can’t ever make amends for that, because she’s lying on the floor of that bedroom, dead. My best friend is dead.”

CHAPTER THREE

TWO HOURS AFTER officially identifying Stephanie’s body at the Beverly Hills Regency, Melanie was waiting in numb silence at the police station, fingers curled around a cup of lukewarm vending machine coffee, staring blankly at the constant parade of officers, detectives and civilians that shuffled past the row of seats outside of Captain Carolyn Murphy’s office. She’d never been so cold in all her life, though she knew the chill she felt had nothing to do with the ambient temperature of the station house.

Stephanie was dead. She’d died at the Beverly, in the same top-floor two-bedroom suite Ariel had booked every time one of her movies was released. According to the investigators, Ariel had allegedly made the reservation over the phone, using her Harris surname instead of her stage name to maintain privacy, but according to the hotel clerk, Stephanie had checked into the room with a young infant. Baby things had been strewn throughout the suite, the baby was missing and nobody had seen any sign of Ariel…but she had been there.

Nobody had seen her enter or leave the hotel, but the little beaded bag lying on the floor near Stephanie belonged to Ariel. Melanie had spent most of the past two hours telling investigators almost everything she knew about her best friend and the missing Ariel. But Melanie was exhausted and so emotionally drained that some of her memories felt almost dreamlike now. It was hard to recall that last distraught message from her sister, word for word, so she hadn’t volunteered any information about Mitch. When Captain Murphy had questioned her about who the father of Ariel’s baby was, Melanie had told her the father was dead—and repeated the fact that she and her sister hadn’t been on speaking terms for the past six months.

Could Ariel have had something to do with Stephanie’s death? Was her sister somehow involved? Why had Stephanie been at the suite with Ariel’s baby? Where had Ariel been with her fancy beaded purse? She only carried that when she was going out someplace jazzy for the evening. It was one of her favorite little costume extras. The forgotten purse and baby things bespoke an ominous degree of haste and panic in Ariel’s departure from the room.

“Melanie?”

She heard Dr. Mattson’s rough, masculine voice and glanced up, feeling a welcome jolt at the sight of him.

“Sorry this is taking so long,” he said. “I know how hard this must be for you, but we needed to compile your notes as soon as possible. The first twenty-four hours of an investigation like this is critical.”

“I understand,” she said, clinging to his every word. “Have you located my sister?”

“Not yet. She’s not at her apartment and hasn’t been seen there for some time. We’ve put out an all- points bulletin to locate her and the baby. I’m sure she’ll turn up soon. Look, you’ve had a bad shock, and you really shouldn’t be alone. Is there someone I can call for you who could come pick you up? A relative or friend?”

“I’m fine, Dr. Mattson. Really.” To prove her point, Melanie tried to stand, but she sat back down abruptly as her knees betrayed her and a wave of dizziness darkened the edges of her vision. “I’ll be fine in a moment,” she amended, taking several deep, slow breaths.

In point of fact, the last place Melanie wanted to go on this ghastly day was home. She wanted desperately to talk to someone about Stephanie, but Rachel, her coworker and a friend of Stephanie’s, wasn’t answering her cell phone, and neither was Victor. He might be able to shed some light on Ariel’s activities. According to Stephanie, he had very generously offered Ariel the caretaker’s cottage at Blackstone to use until she and Mitch sorted out their lives, but to Melanie’s knowledge Ariel had declined. Ariel, addicted to the nightlife, was too fond of her apartment in the city, which was conveniently close to all the clubs and bars she loved to frequent.

Nonetheless, it had surprised Melanie that Victor had offered the cottage to Ariel. It had surprised her even more that Victor hadn’t mentioned this to her at all, that she’d had to learn about it from Stephanie. No doubt Victor had only been trying to help the struggling Ariel who, despite the high fees she’d commanded as a successful actress prior to her pregnancy, let money flow through her hands like water, saving little against just such a contingency as an unexpected maternal hiatus. And, of course, Mitch—damn the man, she still couldn’t think about him without feeling that sharp stab of pain— only made the big money when he was taking the big risks as a stuntman.

It was probable that the couple had faced grim financial restrictions as Ariel’s pregnancy had progressed. For the life of her, Melanie couldn’t imagine the two of them trying to make a go of it. Ariel was so ethereal, her head lost in the clouds, drifting and dreaming her way through life. Mitch was so animal, so basic and so dangerously sexual. Maybe that was what drew the women to him.

Melanie shivered and tightened her arms around herself, focusing on Dr. Mattson’s rugged face, the stubble darkening his jaw and making him look more masculine than ever. He was as weary as she, yet his eyes were clear and keen, and honest in a way that Mitch’s had never been. In spite of the horrors of the day, she felt drawn to him, safe in his presence, and she most definitely didn’t want to go home. Not yet, anyway.

“You really shouldn’t drive,” Dr. Mattson was saying. “Look, I’d be happy to drop you off at a friend’s house….”

Melanie was taken aback by his unexpected offer. “Thank you, Dr. Mattson. I’d appreciate that. And, if it’s not too much trouble…my car is still at the Beverly.”

“Not to worry,” Kent said. “I’ll arrange for an officer to deliver it to your house, just give the desk sergeant over there the address and your car keys.” He held up his hand as she began thanking him again. “It’s the least I can do, after all you’ve been through today. I’ll go round up an unmarked car, and you just point me in the right direction.”

BLACKSTONE WAS NEARLY an hour’s drive from the station house, not because it was all that far as the crow flies, but because the Santa Monica Freeway was choked with bumper-to-bumper traffic. Melanie was content to leave the driving to Dr. Mattson. Twenty minutes into the trip, as she gazed out the passenger window in a blank haze of exhaustion, he said, grinning, “Are we there yet?”

She cast him an apologetic look. “It’s not much farther. I’m sorry, Dr. Mattson. I should have taken a cab. You’ve had a long day, too.”

“I don’t mind.” He shrugged. “This is actually a pretty drive. Living so near the ocean you’d think I’d see it more often. Fact is, I hardly ever lay eyes on the Pacific, except when I’m flying to the ranch.”

“You’re lucky to have a place where you can get away from it all.”

“I couldn’t survive without it,” he said. “Especially with this job. There are days when it’s hard to find the good side of anything, kind of like today. But then I think about Chimeya at sunrise, when the sun rounds out of the east, the sky lights up from inside itself and the mountains glow like fire…. There’s nothing else like it, and no place better for centering the soul.”

Melanie felt the tension in the pit of her stomach ease as she listened to Kent. “It sounds lovely,” she said. “Are you really going back there tonight, with all that’s gone on today?”

“I do my best thinking there, and there’s no commuter traffic. Just a fast taxi and a straight one- hour shot to heaven.”

Melanie studied his profile as he spoke. She wanted to ask him if he was married, but didn’t know how to phrase the question without sounding nosy. How could he not have a partner in his life? He was damn near perfect. In fact, she was still searching for some annoying fault, some irritating quality that would reaffirm her belief that she was far better off without a man in her life. He had to have at least one or two bad habits, aside from drinking too much coffee.

“You told us that your sister had a lot of male friends,” he said, glancing at her, “and that you hadn’t spoken to her in six months, but maybe you could tell me a bit more about who the father of her baby was? Who knows? It might give us some clues to help us find her.”

His tone was casual, but Melanie felt the anxious knot form in her stomach again, even as a voice within whispered, Tell him. Tell him everything.

She wanted to. She sensed that Dr. Mattson knew she was withholding information. His long silences had been filled with the loudest unspoken questions that Melanie had ever endured. She bit her lower lip and stared out at the thinning blur of traffic as they sped away from the city. The irony of this situation was not lost on her. What she couldn’t, wouldn’t, talk about in Dr. Mattson’s office was no longer her secret to keep. Not as long as Ariel and the baby were missing. She drew a painful breath and released it slowly.

“The father was Mitch Carson, and he was my fiancé.”

AS KENT DROVE DOWN Blackstone’s private drive, access to which had been ensured by Melanie’s obvious acquaintance with the security guard stationed at the gatehouse, he was struck by how isolated and unique this property was. He liked the way the natural beauty of the place had been allowed to flourish, an unusual sight amidst this obsessive modern culture of manicuring every blade of grass.

He also liked the way Melanie had begun to open up to him, talking about her fiancé, her sister and her wedding day. It hadn’t been easy for her to broach the subject, but once she started, the words came faster and faster, tumbling out in a rush to release all the pent-up emotions of the past six months. When she had finished, she slumped back in her seat with a dazed look, as if she couldn’t quite believe she’d finally confronted the demons of her past. For the last five minutes she’d been silent, gazing out the window. Kent was glad for the break in conversation. It gave him a few moments to process her revelations and how they may or may not be connected to the day’s events.

“That’s the guest cottage,” Melanie said, rousing as he rounded a curve and a simple gabled dwelling tucked in a grove of eucalyptus trees came into view. “The mansion’s on top of the ledges, another quarter of a mile beyond here.” She sat up straighter. “Look, the door’s open. Maybe Victor’s inside. If you’ll stop here, Dr. Mattson, I’ll go check.”

Kent parked the unmarked police car and followed her to the cottage. The spicy sweet scent of the rose bushes lining the brick path mingled with the salty Pacific air. Grapevines adorned both sides of the arbored entry and a purple wisteria twined against the shingled outer walls. Six o’clock in the afternoon, and the sun’s rays were strong and golden, spilling into this small Tudor-style cottage as Melanie pushed the door completely open.

“Victor?” she called out as she entered. “Vic?”

Kent stepped over the threshold and into the dim coolness that smelled faintly of cedar paneling, leather and wood smoke. He stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the lower light level, then followed Melanie into the living room, which was dominated by a beautiful fieldstone fireplace, the old andirons still cradling several half-burned logs. Built-in bookshelves lined both sides of the fireplace, and comfortable leather furnishings and a braided rug complemented the restful feel of the cozy space.

“We used to live here, Ariel and I,” Melanie murmured, looking around.

“For how long?”

“Three years.” Melanie walked to the bookshelves and scanned the titles. “Victor offered it to me a few months after I began working for him. He knew I was struggling to raise my sister and having a hard time making ends meet on a gofer’s pay. We lived here until Ariel landed her first big movie role and Victor’s wife had a few too many glasses of sherry and came here to tell us she thought it was high time we moved on.” Melanie glanced at him with a wry smile. “I never told Victor that the reason we left was because his wife was jealous of Ariel. At the time I thought that was ludicrous. Ariel was only nineteen. She was still just a baby…or so I thought.”