“The thing is, I’m not sure exactly. I’ve been rather doped up lately, and I tend not to remember things I do. But I killed him, all right. I’m looking right down at his body lying in bed, and he’s got knife wounds all over him, and he bled a lot. It looks like I did it with a sharp kitchen knife. The knife is lying right next to him.”

Riley struggled to make sense of what she was hearing.

She remembered how unhealthily thin Morgan had looked. Riley had been sure that she was anorexic. Riley knew better than most people how hard it was to stab a person to death. Was Morgan even physically capable of doing such a thing?

She heard Morgan sigh.

“I hate to impose, but I honestly don’t know what to do next. I wonder if you could help me.”

“Have you told anybody else? Have you called the police?”

“No.”

Riley stammered, “I’ll … I’ll get right on it.”

“Oh, thank you so much.”

Riley was about to tell Morgan to stay on the line while she made a separate call on her own cell phone. But Morgan hung up.

Riley sat there staring into space for a moment. She heard Jilly ask, “Mom, is something wrong?”

Riley looked and saw that Jilly seemed deeply concerned.

She said, “Nothing to concern yourself about, honey.”

Then she grabbed her cell phone and called the police in Atlanta.

Officer Jared Ruhl felt bored and restless as he rode in the passenger seat next to Sergeant Dylan Petrie. It was night, and they were patrolling one of the richest neighborhoods in Atlanta—an area where there was seldom any criminal activity. Ruhl was new to the force, and he was hungry for a taste of action.

Ruhl had all the respect in the world for his African-American partner and mentor. Sergeant Petrie had been on the force for twenty years or more, and he was one of the most seasoned and experienced cops around.

So why are they wasting us on this beat? Ruhl wondered.

As if in reply to his unspoken question, a female voice sputtered over the scanner …

“Four-Frank-thirteen, do you copy?”

Ruhl’s senses sharpened to hear their own vehicle’s identification.

Petrie answered, “Copy, go ahead.”

The dispatcher hesitated, as if she didn’t quite believe what she was about to say.

Then she said, “We have a possible one-eighty-seven in the Farrell home. Go to the scene.”

Ruhl’s mouth dropped open, and he saw Petrie’s eyes widen with surprise. Ruhl knew that 187 was the code for a homicide.

At Andrew Farrell’s place? Ruhl wondered.

He couldn’t believe his ears, and Petrie looked as though he couldn’t either.

“Say again,” Petrie said.

“A possible 187 in the Farrell home. Can you get there?”

Ruhl saw Petrie squint with perplexity.

“Yeah,” Petrie said. “Who is the suspect?”

The dispatcher hesitated again, then said, “Mrs. Farrell.”

Petrie gasped aloud and shook his head.

“Uh … is this a joke?” he said.

“No joke.”

“Who’s my RP?” Petrie asked.

What does that mean? Ruhl asked himself.

Oh, yeah …

It meant, “Who reported the crime?”

The dispatcher replied, “A BAU agent called it in from Phoenix, Arizona. I know how strange that sounds, but …”

The dispatcher fell silent.

Petrie said, “Code Three response?”

Ruhl knew that Petrie was asking whether to use flashing lights and a siren.

The dispatcher asked, “How close are you to the location?”

“Less than a minute,” Petrie said.

“Better keep quiet then. This whole thing is …”

Her voice faded away again. Ruhl guessed she was concerned that they not draw too much attention to themselves. Whatever was really going on in this luxurious and privileged neighborhood, it was surely best to keep the media out of the loop for as long as they could.

Finally the dispatcher said, “Look, just check it out, OK?”

“Copy,” Petrie said. “We’re on our way.”

Petrie pushed the accelerator and they sped along the quiet street.

Ruhl stared in astonishment as they approached the Farrell mansion. This was the closest he’d ever been to it. The house sprawled in all directions, and it looked to him more like a country club than anybody’s home. The exterior was carefully lit—for protection, no doubt, but also probably to show off its arches and columns and great windows.

Petrie parked the car in the circular drive and stopped the engine. He and Ruhl got out and strode up to the huge front entrance. Petrie rang the doorbell.

After a few moments, a tall, lean man opened the door. Ruhl guessed from his fancy tuxedo-like outfit and his stern, officious expression that he was the family butler.

He looked surprised to see the two police officers—and not at all pleased.

“May I ask what this is all about?” he asked.

The butler didn’t seem to have any idea that there might be trouble inside that mansion.

Petrie glanced at Ruhl, who sensed what his mentor was thinking …

Just a false alarm.

Probably a prank call.

Petrie said to the butler, “Could we speak with Mr. Farrell, please?”

The butler smiled in a supercilious manner.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” he said. “The master is fast asleep, and I have very strict orders—”

Petrie interrupted, “We have reason to be worried about his safety.”

The butler’s eyebrows rose.

“Really?” he said. “I’ll look in on him, if you insist. I’ll try not to waken him. I assure you, he would complain quite vociferously.”

Petrie didn’t ask permission for him and Ruhl to follow the butler into the house. The place was vast inside, with rows of marble columns that eventually led to a red-carpeted staircase with curved, fancy banisters. Ruhl found it harder and harder to believe that anybody could actually live here. It seemed more like a movie set.

Ruhl and Petrie followed the butler on up the stairs and through a wide hallway to a pair of double doors.

“The master suite,” the butler said. “Wait right here for a moment.”

The butler passed on through the doors.

Then they heard him let out a yelp of horror inside.

Ruhl and Petrie rushed through the doors into a sitting room, and from there into an enormous bedroom.

The butler had already switched on the lights. Ruhl’s eyes almost hurt for a moment from the brightness of the enormous room. Then his eyes fell upon a canopied bed. Like everything else in the house, it too was huge, like something out of a movie. But as big as it was, it was dwarfed by the sheer size of the rest of the room.

Everything in the master bedroom was gold and white—except for the blood all over the bed.

CHAPTER THREE

The butler was slumped against the wall, staring with a glazed expression. Ruhl himself felt as though the wind had been knocked out of his lungs.

There the man was, lying on the bed—the rich and famous Andrew Farrell, dead and extremely bloody. Ruhl recognized him from seeing him on TV many times.

Ruhl had never seen a murdered corpse before. He’d never expected the sight to seem so weird and unreal.

What made the scene especially bizarre was the woman sitting in an ornate upholstered chair right next to the bed. Ruhl recognized her, too. She was Morgan Farrell—formerly Morgan Chartier, a now-retired famous model. The dead man had turned their marriage into a media event, and he liked to parade her around in public.

She was wearing a flimsy, expensive-looking gown that was streaked with blood. She sat there unmoving, holding a large carving knife. Its blade was bloody, and so was her hand.

“Shit,” murmured Petrie in a stunned voice.

Then Petrie spoke into his microphone.

“Dispatch, this is four-Frank-thirteen calling from the Farrell house. We’ve got a one-eighty-seven here for real. Send three units, including a homicide unit. Also contact the medical examiner. Better tell Chief Stiles to get over here as well.”

Petrie listened to the dispatcher on his earpiece, then seemed to think for a moment.

“No, don’t make this a Code Three. We need to keep this as quiet as we can for as long as we can.”

During this exchange, Ruhl couldn’t take his eyes off the woman. He’d thought she was beautiful when he’d seen her on TV. Weirdly enough, she seemed just as beautiful to him even now. Even holding a bloody knife in her hand, she looked as delicate and fragile as a china figurine.

She was also as still as if she were made of china—as motionless as the corpse, and apparently unaware that anyone had entered the room. Even her eyes didn’t move as she kept staring at the knife in her hand.

As Ruhl followed Petrie toward the woman, it occurred to him that the scene no longer reminded him of a movie set.

It’s more like an exhibit in a wax museum, he thought.

Petrie gently touched the woman on the shoulder and said, “Mrs. Farrell …”

The woman didn’t seem the least bit startled as she looked up at him.

She smiled and said, “Oh, hello, Officer. I wondered when the police were going to get here.”

Petrie put on a pair of plastic gloves. Ruhl didn’t need to be told to do the same. Then Petrie delicately took the knife out of the woman’s hand and handed it to Ruhl, who carefully bagged the weapon.

As they were doing this, Petrie said to the woman, “Please tell me what happened here.”

The woman let out a rather musical chuckle.

“Well, that’s a silly question. I killed Andrew. Isn’t that obvious?”

Petrie turned to look at Ruhl, as if to ask …

Is it obvious?

On one hand, there didn’t seem to be any other explanation for this bizarre scene. On the other hand …

She looks so weak and helpless, Ruhl thought.

He couldn’t begin to imagine her doing such a thing.

Petrie said to Ruhl, “Go talk to the butler. Find out what he knows.”

While Petrie examined the body, Ruhl went over to the butler, who was still crouched against the wall.

Ruhl said to him, “Sir, could you tell me what happened here?”

The butler opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“Sir,” Ruhl repeated.

The butler squinted as if in deep confusion. He said, “I don’t know. You arrived and …”

He fell silent again.

Ruhl wondered …

Does he really not know anything at all?

Maybe the butler was faking his shock and perplexity.

Maybe he was actually the killer.

The possibility reminded Ruhl of the old cliché …

“The butler did it.”

The idea might even be funny under different circumstances.

But certainly not right now.

Ruhl thought fast, trying to decide what questions to ask the man.

He said, “Is there anybody else in the house?”

The butler replied in a dull voice, “Just the live-in help. Six servants in all aside from myself, three men and three women. Certainly you don’t think …?”

Ruhl had no idea what to think, at least not yet.

He asked the butler, “Is it possible that anyone else is in the house somewhere? An intruder, maybe?”

The butler shook his head.

“I don’t see how,” he said. “Our security system is of the very best.”

That’s not a no, Ruhl thought. Suddenly he felt quite alarmed.

If the killer was an intruder, might he still be in the house somewhere?

Or might he be slipping away at this very moment?

Then Ruhl heard Petrie talking into his microphone, giving someone instructions on how to find the bedroom in the huge mansion.

It seemed like only seconds until the room was swarming with cops. Among them was Chief Elmo Stiles, a bulky and imposing man. Ruhl was also surprised to see the county District Attorney, Seth Musil.

The normally smooth and polished DA looked disheveled and disoriented, as if he had just been roused out of bed. Ruhl guessed that the chief had contacted the DA as soon as he’d heard the news, then picked him up and brought him here.

The DA gasped with horror at what he saw and rushed toward the woman.

“Morgan!” he said.

“Hello, Seth,” the woman said, as if pleasantly surprised by his arrival. Ruhl wasn’t especially surprised that Morgan Farrell and a high-ranking politician like the DA knew each other. The woman still didn’t seem to be aware of much of anything else that was going on around her.

Smiling, the woman said to Musil, “Well, I suppose it’s obvious what happened. And I’m sure you’re not surprised that—”

Musil hastily interrupted.

“No, Morgan. Don’t say anything. Not just yet. Not until we get you a lawyer.”

Sergeant Petrie was already organizing the people in the room.

He said to the butler, “Tell them the layout of the house, every nook and cranny.”

Then he said to the cops, “I want the whole place searched for any intruders or any sign of a break-in. And check in with the live-in staff, make sure they can account for their actions during the last few hours.”

The cops gathered around the butler, who was on his feet now. The butler gave them directions, and the cops left the room. Not knowing what else to do, Ruhl stood next to Sergeant Petrie, looking over the grisly scene. The DA was now standing protectively over the smiling, blood-spattered woman.

Ruhl was still struggling to come to terms with what he was seeing. He reminded himself that this was his first homicide. He wondered …

Will I ever be involved in one weirder than this?

He also hoped that the cops searching the house wouldn’t return empty-handed. Maybe they’d come back with the real culprit. Ruhl hated the thought that this delicate, lovely woman was really capable of murder.

Long minutes passed before the cops and the butler returned.

They said they hadn’t found any intruders or any sign that anyone had broken into the house. They’d found the live-in staff asleep in their beds and had no reason to think that any of them were responsible.

The medical examiner and his team arrived and began to attend to the body. The huge room was really quite crowded now. At long last, the bloodstained woman of the house seemed to be aware of the bustle of activity.

She got up from her chair and said to the butler, “Maurice, where are your manners? Ask these good people if they’d like anything to eat or drink.”

Petrie walked toward her, taking out his handcuffs.

He said to her, “That’s very kind of you, ma’am, but it won’t be necessary.”

Then, in an extremely polite and considerate tone, he began to read Morgan Farrell her rights.

CHAPTER FOUR

Riley couldn’t help but worry as the court session unfolded.

So far, everything seemed to be going smoothly. Riley herself had testified about the kind of home she was trying to make for Jilly, and Bonnie and Arnold Flaxman had testified to Jilly’s desperate need for a stable family.

Even so, Riley felt uneasy about Jilly’s father, Albert Scarlatti.

She’d never actually seen the man before today. Judging from what Jilly had told her about him, she had pictured a grotesque ogre of a man.

But his actual appearance surprised her.

His once-black hair was heavily streaked with gray, and his dark features were, as she’d expected, ravaged from years of alcoholism. Even so, he seemed perfectly sober right now. He was dressed well but not expensively, and he was kindly and charming with everyone he talked to.

Riley also wondered about the woman sitting at Scarlatti’s side and holding his hand. She, too, looked as though she’d lived a hard life. Otherwise, her expression was difficult for Riley to read.

Who is she? Riley wondered.

All Riley knew about Scarlatti’s wife and Jilly’s mother was that she had disappeared many years ago. Scarlatti had often told Jilly that she’d probably died.

This couldn’t be her after all these years. Jilly had shown no sign of even knowing this woman. So who was she?

Now it was time for Jilly to speak.

Riley squeezed Jilly’s hand reassuringly, and the young teenager took the stand.

Jilly looked small in the big witness chair. Her eyes darted around the courtroom nervously, glancing at the judge, then making eye contact with her father.

The man smiled with what appeared to be sincere affection, but Jilly hastily averted her gaze.

Riley’s attorney, Delbert Kaul, asked Jilly how she felt about the adoption.

Riley could see Jilly’s whole body shake with emotion.

“I want it more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life,” Jilly said in an unsteady voice. “I’ve been so, so happy living with my mom—”

“You mean Ms. Paige,” Kaul said, gently interrupting.

“Well, she’s my mom now as far as I’m concerned, and that’s what I call her. And her daughter, April, is my big sister. Until I started living with them, I had no idea what it would be like—having a real family to love me and care for me.”

Jilly seemed to be bravely fighting back her tears.

Riley wasn’t sure that she was going to be able to do the same.

Then Kaul asked, “Can you tell the judge a little about what it was like living with your father?”

Jilly looked at her father.

Then she looked at the judge and said, “It was awful.”

She went on to tell the court what she had told Riley yesterday—how her father had locked her in a closet for days. Riley shuddered as she listened to the story all over again. Most of the people in the courtroom seemed to be deeply affected by it. Even her father hung his head.

When she was finished, Jilly was truly in tears.

“Until my new mom came into my life, everyone I loved ended up leaving sooner or later. They couldn’t stand living with Dad because he was so awful to them. My mother, my older brother—even my little puppy, Darby, ran away.”

Riley’s throat tightened. She remembered Jilly crying when she spoke of the puppy she’d lost so many months ago. Jilly still worried about what had become of Darby.

“Please,” she said to the judge. “Please don’t send me back to that. I’m so happy with my new family. Don’t take me away from them.”

Jilly then came back and sat next to Riley again.

Riley squeezed her hand and whispered to her, “You did really well. I’m proud of you.”

Jilly nodded and wiped away her tears.

Then Riley’s attorney, Delbert Kaul, presented the judge with all the necessary papers to finalize the adoption. He was especially emphasizing the consent form signed by Jilly’s father.

As far as Riley could tell, Kaul was doing a reasonably thorough job with the presentation. But his voice and manner were hardly inspiring, and the judge, a beefy, scowling man with small, beady eyes, didn’t seem to be at all impressed.

For a moment, Riley’s mind drifted back to the bizarre phone call she’d gotten yesterday from Morgan Farrell. Of course Riley had contacted the police in Atlanta right away. If what the woman had said was true, then surely she was in custody by now. Riley couldn’t help wondering what had really happened.

Was it really possible that the fragile woman she’d met in Atlanta had committed murder?

This is no time to think about all that, she reminded herself.

When Kaul finished his presentation, Scarlatti’s lawyer stood up.

Jolene Paget was a keen-eyed woman in her thirties whose lips seemed to be shaped in a slight but perpetual smirk.

She said to the lawyer, “My client wishes to contest this adoption.”

The judge nodded and growled, “I know he does, Ms. Paget. Your client had better have a good reason for wanting change his own decision.”

Riley immediately noticed that, unlike her own lawyer, Paget wasn’t referring to any notes. Also unlike Kaul, her voice and demeanor exuded self-confidence.

She said, “Mr. Scarlatti has very good reason, your honor. He gave his consent under duress. He was going through an especially hard time and didn’t have a job. And yes, he was drinking back then. And he was depressed.”

Paget nodded toward Brenda Fitch, who was also sitting in the courtroom, and added, “He was easy prey to pressure from social services personnel, especially this woman. Brenda Fitch threatened to bring him up on charges for entirely made-up crimes and offenses.”

Brenda let out a sharp gasp of outrage. She said to Paget, “That’s not true and you know it.”

Paget’s smirk broadened as she said, “Your honor, would you kindly tell Ms. Fitch not to interrupt?”

“Please keep quiet, Ms. Fitch,” the judge said.

Paget added, “My client also wishes to bring charges of kidnapping against Ms. Paige—with Ms. Fitch as an accessory.”

Brenda let out an audible groan of disgust, but Riley forced herself to keep quiet. She’d known all along that Paget was going to pursue this issue.

The judge said, “Ms. Paget, you’ve presented no evidence of kidnapping by anybody. As for the duress and threats you mentioned, you’ve offered no proof or evidence. You’ve said nothing to persuade me that your client’s initial consent shouldn’t still stand.”

Albert Scarlatti then got to his feet.

“May I say a few words on my own behalf, your honor?” he begged.

When the judge nodded his approval, Riley felt a new jolt of concern.

Scarlatti hung his head and spoke in a low, quiet voice.

“What Jilly told you just now about what I did to her—I know it sounds awful. And Jilly, I’m awfully sorry. But the truth is, that’s not exactly how it happened.”

Riley had to stop herself from interrupting him. She was sure that Jilly hadn’t lied about this.

Albert Scarlatti chuckled a bit sadly. A warm smile spread across his worn features.

“Jilly, surely you’ll admit that you’ve been a handful to raise. You can be a challenge, little daughter. You’ve got a temper, and you’d get completely out of control sometimes, and I just didn’t know what to do that day. The way I remember it, I was just plain desperate when I put you in that closet.”

He shrugged a little and continued, “But it wasn’t like you said. I’d never have put you through something like that for days. Not even for a few hours. I’m not saying you’re not telling the truth, just that your imagination sometimes runs away with you. And I understand that.”

Then Scarlatti turned his attention to the others in the courtroom.

He said, “A lot has happened since I lost my little Jilly. I’ve cleaned myself up. I’ve been in rehab and I go to AA regularly, and I haven’t had a drink in months. I hope never to have a drink again for the rest of my life. And I’ve got a steady job—nothing really impressive, just janitorial work, but it’s a good job, and I can give you a reference from my employer that I’m doing just fine.”

Then he touched the mysterious woman he’d been sitting next to on the shoulder.

“But there’s been another big change in my life. I met Barbara Long here, the most wonderful woman in the world, and she’s the best thing that ever happened to me. We’re engaged to be married later this month.”

The woman smiled at him with glistening eyes.

Scarlatti spoke directly to Jilly now.

“That’s right, Jilly. No more single-parent family. You’re going to have a father and a mother—a real mother after all these years.”

Riley felt like a knife had been plunged in her chest.

Jilly just said that I’m her real mom, she thought. But what could she say about that single-parent crack? Her divorce from Ryan had been final even before she found Jilly.

Scarlatti then directed his attention to Brenda Fitch.

He said, “Ms. Fitch, my lawyer just said some pretty tough things about you just now. I just want you to know that I don’t have any hard feelings. You’ve been doing your job, and I know that. I just want you to know how much I’ve changed.”

Then he looked Riley straight in the eye.

“Ms. Paige, I’ve got no hard feelings toward you either. In fact, I’m grateful for everything you did to take care of Jilly while I was trying to get myself together. I know it couldn’t have been easy for you, being single and all. And with a teenager of your own to take care of.”

<1 2 3 4 >

На страницу:

Перейти

2 из 4

Полная версия

Once Trapped

Другие книги автора