All Fall Down

“With that personality, he’d better be good,” she muttered, jotting a note to call him, then meeting her chief’s gaze again. “What’s next?”

“I want you to question the victim’s friends, her family members and fellow students. Find out who she was seeing, where she hung out and what she was into. But first, get over to CMPD headquarters. Make sure they haven’t already sent somebody out. If they have, find out who and track them down. We have to appear a united front. Andersen will flip if it looks like we’re not. Next thing I know, the mayor’ll be crawling up my ass.”

That’d be a neat trick. To hide her smile, Melanie glanced down at her notes.

“Anything else?” Bobby asked.

“Yeah,” he barked. “Get moving!”

They did, jumping to their feet and hurrying out of their boss’s office. The first thing Melanie did was call her twin sister, Mia. The other woman picked up right away. “Mia, it’s Mel.”

“Melanie! My God, I was just watching channel six. That poor girl!” She lowered her voice. “Was it awful?”

“Worse,” Melanie replied grimly. “That’s why I’m calling. I need a favor.” “Shoot.”

“It’s crazy around here, and I don’t expect it to let up in time for me to pick Casey up at preschool. Would you mind?” Melanie glanced at the picture of her four-year-old son on her desk, her lips lifting in an involuntary smile. “I’d ask Stan to do it but I don’t have the time for one of his lectures about why I need to quit my job and how my being a cop is bad for Casey.”

“He’s full of crap. But, yes, I’d love to get Casey from school. And since I’ll be in the neighborhood, I suppose you’d like me to head around the corner and pick up your uniforms at that dry cleaners?”

“You’re a lifesaver. On both accounts.”

From the corners of her eyes, she saw that Bobby was ready and waiting at the door. “Look, when you pick him up this time, don’t pretend to be me. It really freaks his teachers out.”

“Lightweights.” Mia cackled, sounding absolutely wicked. “What’s the good of being an identical twin if I can’t have a little fun with it? Besides, Casey likes it. It’s our little game.”

Melanie shook her head. Actually, she and Mia were both identical twins and triplets. When Melanie told people so, they always laughed, thinking she was making a joke. But it was true. She and Mia were identical twins but they also had a fraternal triplet sister, Ashley.

What made it even more fun was Ashley’s striking resemblance to her sisters. When together, the three fair-haired, blue-eyed look-alikes drew the startled gazes of passersby. Even their friends had been known to do double takes.

“Remember how we used to trick our teachers?” Mia murmured, her tone amused.

“I’m thirty-two, not ninety-two. Of course, I remember. You were always the instigator. And I was the one who always got blamed.”

“Try reversing that, sister dear.”

Bobby cleared his throat, tapped his watch and pointed at the chief’s office. She nodded in acknowledgment. “I would if I had the time, Mia. Right now I’ve got to go solve a murder.”

Her sister’s wish of “Go for it, Sherlock” ringing in her ears, Melanie hung up the phone and hurried to meet her partner.

4

The Mecklenburg County District Attorney’s office was located in Uptown Charlotte, in the old county courthouse building. Built in the days before the advent of the office high-rise—those unadorned rectangles filled with low-ceiling rooms jammed with vanilla cubicles, each no bigger or smaller than the other—the courthouse was now a part of Government Plaza, residing with modern-day, state-of-the-art wonders like the Law Enforcement Center.

Rabbit warrens, Assistant District Attorney Veronica Ford called such buildings. Monuments to the depersonalization of modern life. In contrast, the old courthouse possessed an aura of faded grandeur. To Veronica, it fit her image of a place where the wheels of justice turned slowly but surely, a place where, though sometimes mired in a flawed, old-fashioned system, justice had its way.

Just as it fit her image of Charlotte, a city of both the old South and the new, a city of blooming trees and skyscrapers, of southern gentility and frenzied commerce. A city she had felt at home in from the moment she’d arrived, nine months before.

Even though running late for a team meeting, Veronica eschewed the rickety but reliable elevator and took the wide, curving central staircase to the second floor, trailing her hand along its ornate wrought-iron handrail. Veronica loved the law. She loved her part in it, relished the fact that without her the world would not be quite as good a place to live. She believed that—perhaps naively, perhaps with conceit.

But if she didn’t, what would be the point of working for the D.A.? She could make a helluva lot more money with a lot less stress practicing corporate law.

“Afternoon, Jen,” she called to the receptionist as she stepped onto the top landing.

Pregnant with her first child, the young woman was positively glowing with happiness. She smiled at Veronica. “Morning to you, too.”

“Any messages?”

“Several.” The woman indicated a stack of pink message slips. “Nothing urgent.”

Veronica crossed to the reception desk, set her Starbucks travel mug down and handed the other woman a take-out bag from the same establishment. She grinned. “I brought the baby a little something.”

“One of the cranberry-nut scones? The baby loves those.”

“The very ones.”

The receptionist squealed with pleasure and dug into the bag. “You are a complete peach, Veronica Ford. The baby and I thank you.”

Veronica laughed and flipped quickly through the messages, seeing nothing that couldn’t wait until after her meeting. “How late am I? Rick here yet?”

Rick Zanders was the Person’s Team supervisor. The lawyers on the Person’s Team, of which Veronica was one, handled all violent crimes committed against a person—with the exception of homicide and crimes against children. Those included rape, assault, battery, sexual assault and kidnapping. The team met every Wednesday afternoon to discuss the status of ongoing cases, to be informed about what was new, to discuss strategy and offer assistance when needed.

“Only a couple minutes before you, and he had several calls to make before the meeting.” She glanced at her watch, then over her shoulder. “I bet you still have ten minutes. Apparently, Rick knows the Andersen family personally.” Jen lowered her voice. “You heard about the murder?”

“I heard.” Veronica frowned. “What’s everyone saying? Is there anything more than what’s in the media? Any suspects?”

“Not that I’ve heard. But I bet Rick has some of the details.” She shuddered. “It’s so awful. She was a really nice girl. So pretty, too.”

Veronica thought of the attractive blonde she had seen pictured on television that morning. She hadn’t been in Charlotte long enough to have met any of the Andersens personally, but she had heard of them. As she understood it, Joli Andersen had had a bright future ahead of her.

“They said on TV that she was strangled,” Jen continued, whispering.

“Suffocated,” Veronica corrected.

“Do you think they’ll catch the guy?” The receptionist laid a hand protectively over her swollen belly. “Knowing a person like that is walking the streets of Charlotte gives me the creeps. I mean, if someone like Joli Andersen can get killed, anybody can.”

Veronica knew Jen wasn’t alone in her fears, not today. No doubt those same words, or a variation of them, had been uttered in nearly every household in Charlotte over the past few hours. A murder like this one, a victim like Joli Andersen, drove home just how dangerous the world was. And just how fickle fate.

“I can assure you of one thing, Jen, this will probably be the most intensive manhunt Charlotte has ever seen.” Veronica stuffed her messages into her pocket, then collected her coffee cup and briefcase. “And when they do catch him, we’ll nail him.”

The receptionist smiled, looking relieved. “Justice always wins out.”

After agreeing, Veronica made her way to the conference room. There, the other lawyers—with the exception of Rick—were already assembled. And as she had known they would be, they were all talking about the same thing—Joli Andersen’s murder. She called out a hello, dropped her things at a vacant spot at the table and ambled over to a group of her colleagues. They all began talking to her at once.

“Isn’t it unbelievable?”

“I heard Rick dated Joli for a while. This is going to hit him really hard.”

“Are you sure? He’s quite a bit older than—”

“—heard that the FBI’s been called in.”

“A top profiler. Rumor has it that—”

“The crime involved some sort of kinky sex.”

Veronica jumped on the last, the first bit of new information that interested her. “Where did you hear that? That wasn’t on any of the news reports.”

The other attorney looked at her. “A friend in homicide. He didn’t give specifics, but indicated it was … unpleasant.”

Rick entered the room, his face ashen. Immediately all conversation ceased, and the assembled ADAs took their seats. He cleared his throat. “Before any of you ask, I don’t know much more than you do. The murder occurred in Whistlestop. At a motel. She was suffocated. They have no suspects as of yet, but the FBI is putting together a profile of the killer. Apparently there was biological evidence left at the scene, though I don’t know of what nature. In deference to the Andersen family, the police have agreed to keep the most prurient aspects of the crime from the press.”

He ran a hand across his forehead; Veronica saw that it shook. From the looks of him, Veronica suspected the rumor about him and the young Joli was true. She wondered if their past relationship might also make him a suspect. Probably, she decided. In this investigation, no stone would be left unturned.

“Why don’t we get down to business?” Rick murmured. “What have we got? Anything new?”

Laurie Carter spoke up. “I’ve got a pretty good assault with a deadly weapon. Two neighboring housewives get into an argument over a cup of borrowed sugar. The argument turns ugly and neighbor one whacks neighbor two with a sauté pan.”

Laughter rippled around the table. A lawyer named Ned House arched his eyebrows. “A sauté pan’s your deadly weapon?”

“Hey,” one of the other female prosecutors piped up, “you ever try to pick up one of those suckers? They’re heavy.”

“It did the trick,” Laurie said dryly. “Landed our victim in the hospital. Concussion, stitches, broken nose. The whole bit.”

Rick shook his head. “You’re joking, right?”

“No way. And here’s where the story really gets fun. Turns out neighbor two’s been borrowing more than sugar from her neighbor. Seems she and Mrs. Sauté Pan’s husband have been doing the suburban cha-cha-cha when they thought nobody was looking.”

Ned made a clucking sound with his tongue. “And people think the ‘burbs are safe.”

“Plead it down,” Veronica murmured. “Sure she did it, but the jury’s going to sympathize with the scorned wife.”

“Unless the jury’s predominantly male,” Ned countered.

Veronica shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. This is a country founded by Puritans. In the back of their minds, the jurors, male or female, are going to figure the slut deserved it.”

Rick agreed. “Simple assault’s the best you’re going to get out of it. Plead it down.”

They moved on, discussing two other assaults and an attempted rape. Each time, the other lawyers looked to Veronica for her opinion. Although she had only been with the Charlotte D.A.’s office nine months, she had been with the Charleston District Attorney for three years before that. There, she had earned the reputation of being a careful prosecutor who went after each viable case with a vengeance.

The truth was, she hated bullies. Hated the cowardly scum that roamed the streets preying on those weaker than themselves. On women. Children. The elderly. She had dedicated her life to making the scum pay.

That dedication had translated into a ninety-seven percent conviction rate. It never failed to astound her how awed the other prosecutors were by that number. To her, it hadn’t been hard to achieve. If she went forward with a case, she believed she could win it. And she never stopped until she had.

Rick turned to her. “Veronica, how’s the Alvarez date-rape case coming?”

The other lawyers looked expectantly at her. When this case had first come in, Rick had recommended against it. It’d be tough to win, he’d said. Date rape was always iffy from a trial standpoint. And this case was more so because the girl involved had a reputation and the boy was a national merit scholar, the captain of his high-school football team and from a prominent family.

But Veronica had fought for the case. She had seen Angie Alvarez’s bruises. She had listened to her story and seen the real terror in her eyes. This was America, Veronica had told Rick. Just because a boy could throw a football or his daddy had money didn’t make him above the law. “No” meant “no” for everybody.

She had vowed to Rick—and herself—that she would make this case work. And now she had.

Veronica smiled, remembering how, during their first interview, the boy had smirked at her. Cocky little prick. She had him now.

“I have another girl,” she said.

Rick straightened. “And she’s willing to testify?”

“Willing and ready.”

“What kept her quiet before?”

“Fear. Her mother warned her that if she sought justice, the opposite would happen, her reputation would be ruined and no nice boy would ever have anything to do with her. Her mother begged her to put it behind her and go on as if nothing had happened.”

“What changed?”

“Simple. She hasn’t been able to put it behind her.” Veronica dropped her hands to her lap so the other prosecutors wouldn’t see her flexing her fingers. She didn’t want them to know how deeply this case had affected her. “Besides, there’s safety in numbers. And believe me, this boy’s been busy.”

“There are more girls?” Laurie said, shaking her head, expression disgusted.

“Looks like there might be. My witnesses have heard rumors. I’ve got someone checking into a couple of them.”

“Nail this creep to the wall,” Laurie muttered.

“Done.” Veronica smiled, determined. “At this point it’s just a matter of how high and how many nails.”

5

It was nearly seven that evening before Melanie was able to leave work to pick Casey up at her sister’s. It had been an exhilarating, exhausting, eye-opening day. She had learned more in the past twelve hours than she had from all her classes at the academy combined or from the police manuals she pored over at every opportunity.

Homicide investigation, she had discovered, was a tedious process. It required patience, logic, intuition and tenacity, qualities that could be honed but not necessarily learned. Dealing with the victim’s family and friends called for not only a sensitive and deft hand, but a thick skin and quick mind as well.

Those closest to Joli had painted the portrait of a happy, well-adjusted young woman, one who liked men and who liked to party. From those interviews, Melanie had assembled a list of the clubs Joli had frequented and of the men she had dated in the past year. The list of both had been extensive.

Everyone Melanie had spoken with had either been in shock or been grieving. Dealing with their pain had been the most difficult part of the day for the Whistlestop cops, perhaps even more upsetting than the crime scene itself. She’d been unable to remain detached—she had looked into their eyes and felt their loss keenly.

After a time, she had found herself avoiding their gazes.

Melanie pulled up in front of her sister’s palatial, plantation-style home. Like Melanie’s ex-husband, her sister had chosen to reside in southeast Charlotte, an area populated by the very affluent and dotted with one exclusive, gated community after another. Melanie had always found the area too grand, almost overwhelming in its obvious wealth.

She climbed out of the car. Casey was playing with action figures on the front porch; Mia was on the porch swing, watching him. Smiling, Melanie took a moment to drink in the picture they made. The breeze stirring Mia’s fair hair and filmy cotton dress, the gentle rock of the swing, Casey’s happy chatter. Nice. Domestic and warm. Like something out of an Andrew Wyeth painting.

Melanie cocked her head. Most of the time, when she looked at her twin, she simply saw her sister, Mia. But sometimes, like now, she experienced a strange sort of déjà vu. A sense that she was looking at herself. A different version of herself, from her previous lifetime, before her divorce.

Casey glanced up and caught sight of her and jumped to his feet. “Mom!” he shouted and tore down the steps to meet her.

She opened her arms; he launched himself into them, hugging her tightly. She squeezed her eyes shut and hugged him back, his sweetness chasing away the ugliness of the day.

She loved him so much it hurt. Before Casey she hadn’t believed such a thing possible. How could loving someone hurt?

Then her obstetrician had laid Casey in her arms and against her heart, and she had understood. Instantly. Irrevocably.

“Did you have fun?” she asked, loosening her grip on him and gazing into his eyes, eyes the same bright blue as hers and her sisters’.

He nodded excitedly. “Aunt Mia took me for ice cream. Then we went to the park an’ she pushed me on the swing. I went down the big slide, Mom!”

“The big slide?” She widened her eyes to show that she was properly amazed and impressed. He had been wanting to go down that slide for weeks, but each time he had started up the ladder he had chickened out before he reached the top.

“I was really scared, but Aunt Mia followed me up. And she went down right behind me, just like she promised.”

She kissed his cheek. “That’s my big, brave boy. You must be really proud of yourself.”

He bobbed his head, grinning from ear to ear. “But you hav’to be careful, ‘cause you can fall like Aunt Mia did. She hurt her eye.”

Melanie lifted her gaze to her sister, standing at the edge of the porch, facing them. Melanie made a sound of dismay. Her sister’s right eye was black and blue, the right side of her face swollen. “You fell off the slide?”

“Of course not.” She smiled at Casey. “Silly Mommy. Actually, I tripped on a shoe.”

“One of Uncle Boyd’s big, stupid boots,” Casey chimed in.

“We don’t say stupid,” Melanie corrected, frowning at her son, then returning her attention to her sister. “It’s not like you to be clumsy.”

Mia ignored the comment. “Have time for a glass of wine? Boyd has a meeting tonight, so I’m fancy-free.”

As when they’d spoken on the phone earlier, Melanie picked up on something in her sister’s tone that troubled her. “After this day?” she said lightly. “I’ll make time.”

She ruffled her son’s hair, an unruly mop of golden curls, then nudged him toward the porch. After collecting his toys, the three went inside. Melanie switched on the Cartoon Channel, then headed into the kitchen where she found Mia opening a bottle of Chardonnay.

Melanie sank onto one of the iron and wicker bar stools that lined the breakfast counter. “You want to talk about it?” she asked.

“Talk about what?” Mia poured a glass of the chilled wine, slid it across to Melanie, then poured another for herself.

“I don’t know. Whatever it is I’m hearing in your voice. Something’s bothering you.”

Mia gazed at her a moment, then turned and crossed to the breakfront, slid open the middle drawer and came out with a pack of cigarettes. She shook one out and, hands shaking, lit it.

Melanie watched as her sister took a deep drag, holding the smoke in a moment as if it had medicinal powers before she released it. She said nothing, though she despised her sister’s habit—one Mia resorted to only when troubled. “It must be bad,” Melanie murmured. “I haven’t seen you with a cigarette in months.”

Mia took another drag. She looked at Melanie. “Boyd’s cheating on me.”

“Oh, Mia.” Melanie reached across the counter and covered her sister’s hand with one of her own. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.” She sucked in a trembling breath. “He’s out at night, a lot. Sometimes until really late. He always has a plausible excuse for going out. A meeting with the hospital administrators. Or the hospital board. Or one of his medical societies.” She made a sound of disgust. “It’s always something.”

“And you think he’s lying?”

“I know he is. When he comes home … the way he looks … the way he … smells.” She made a sound of shame, turned and crossed to the sink. She bowed her head. “Like cheap perfume and … sex.”

Melanie dropped her hands to her lap, angry for her sister. She hadn’t wanted Mia to marry Boyd Donaldson, had tried to talk her out of it. Despite his good looks and professional reputation, something about the man had always seemed off to her, like a picture slightly out of focus. She hadn’t trusted him, had resented the prenuptial agreement he had forced Mia to sign.

Now she wished she hadn’t been quite so vocal with her criticisms. If she hadn’t been, maybe Mia would have felt free to come to her for help sooner.

“Have you checked up on him?” Melanie asked. “Hired someone to follow him or called the hospital when he’s supposed to be there? Anything like that?”

“No.” She flipped on the water, doused what was left of her cigarette, then dropped it in the trash. “I’ve been afraid to. It’s like a part of me … doesn’t want to know for certain.”

Because faced with proof, she would be forced to act. Not exactly her twin’s strong suit.

“Oh, Mia, I understand. I do. But you can’t stick your head in the sand with this one. If he’s cheating, you have to know for certain. From the standpoint of your health alone—”

“Don’t start with me. Please, Melanie. I feel awful enough already, thank you.” Mia passed a hand over her face. “It’s my life and my marriage and I’ll muddle my way through somehow.”

“So butt out?” Melanie said stiffly, feelings hurt. “Fine. Just don’t expect me to be your sounding board, because I can’t sit back and do nothing. It’s not my way.”

“But it’s mine?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Maybe you didn’t have to.”

The two women locked gazes; Mia backed down first. “Actually, I took your advice already. I thought, okay, what would Melanie do? So I confronted him. And guess what?”

Melanie swallowed hard, her mouth dry. “What?”

“He went berserk.” Mia indicated her black eye. “You see the result.” Melanie stared at her sister a moment, not wanting to believe what she was hearing. “You don’t mean … he hit you?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“That son-of-a-bitch!” Melanie leaped to her feet. “That no-good, two-timing … I’ll kill the bastard. I swear, I’ll—”

Melanie bit back the words, struggling to get hold of her anger. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and counted to ten. Growing up, she’d had a reputation for being a hothead. Her temper had gotten her into trouble time and again—once nearly landing her in reform school. If not for an understanding social worker, she would have ended up there.

As an adult she had learned to control her hair-trigger emotions. To think before she acted. To consider the consequences of her actions.

But old habits died hard. And when it came to her sisters, particularly Mia, she had always been ferociously, even blindly, protective.

“What are you going to do?” she managed to ask through gritted teeth.

Mia sighed, the sound too young and helpless for a thirty-two-year old woman. “What can I do?”

“What can you …” Melanie made a sound of disbelief. “Call the cops. Have his butt hauled in, then press charges. Leave him, for heaven’s sake!”