HER PERFECT SECRET a totally gripping psychological thriller Read online

  Starzyk: Except that it had been used in this awful thing. You must’ve thought that, with some part of your mind.

  Laura: I guess.

  Mooney: For the tape, images K1a through K1g are being shown to the witness.

  Starzyk: Mrs. Bishop, we took inventory of all the items in your garage, and in the small outbuilding — the shed — where your husband kept the lawnmower and other things. Here is a picture of the hammer. Please take a look. Now, would you say, is it your best recollection that this hammer belonged to your late husband, David?

  Laura: Yes.

  Starzyk: Would you say you had an idea where it was located?

  [Silence.]

  Starzyk: Mrs. Bishop—

  Laura: I think I need a lawyer. Not because I did anything, but because you seem determined to paint a certain picture. I could say something completely innocent and have it used against me.

  Starzyk: You can retain counsel. Absolutely. That’s your right. But just so you know, my question sought to affirm aspects of the crime scene. Like tracks in the snow leading to the garage. Accessing the garage, which was unlocked. Our belief that the hammer was kept in the garage.

  Laura: Sure. Yes. And the man my son saw outside the house, the man who I heard fighting with my husband in the kitchen, he was the one who walked up our driveway, went to the garage, found a hammer, came into the house and beat my husband to death. But you don’t have anything on that, do you? Nothing you can use. That’s why you’re still talking to me. Okay? I’m leaving.

  [Chair scraping.]

  Mooney: For the tape, Laura Bishop has left the room.

  Starzyk: I think we touched a nerve. And who knows where to find a hammer in someone’s garage? I don’t even know where my own hammer is.

  Mooney: That wasn’t right.

  Starzyk: What? We have it all right here. United Artists Management is on the edge of bankruptcy. She’s suspected of cheating on him. Witnesses saw her hit him in the face at that restaurant. That’s motive, plus motive, plus violent tendencies. So someone was in a car outside? Who gives a shit? Crime scene wasn’t able to determine if—

  Mooney: Because the crime scene got contaminated.

  Starzyk: Bullshit. We didn’t — the tape is still running, Rebecca. Shut it off. Roll back the last minute and erase it. For God’s sake. That’s not my fault. Not my fault some tech fucked up the scene. Listen, I’m going for a cigarette. If we’re going to get done with paperwork by ton—

  [Recording ends.]

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO | Sunday

  It’s late, and I can’t sleep. I keep hearing Michael’s childlike voice in my head. Or picture him writhing on the bed, grunting with impotent fury. It’s just past three a.m. I get up and decide to use the downstairs bathroom to pee, so as not to wake anyone. Afterward, I run the tap for a glass of water.

  Now I’m really awake.

  I get a couple of things from upstairs as quietly as I can. While I’m in the closet, Paul mumbles something in his sleep. He sounds like he’s having a bad dream. After a moment, he rolls over onto his side and mumbles something.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Go back to sleep.”

  Back downstairs, I slip out into the night air — cool now, after the rain, everything wet and shining in the moonlight. The lake has calmed and softly laps the shore. I sluice away some water from one of the Adirondack chairs and sit down.

  I light a cigarette. It’s one of Joni’s, and it seems to help me think.

  Two minutes later, I text Frank Mills.

  You up?

  The squiggles pop up almost immediately. Then: No.

  Smiling, I peck out the next message: Detective Rebecca Mooney . . . Retired? Where?

  I puff the cigarette. Mills responds: That’s an easy one. She’s up near you.

  I text: ?

  Frank’s response: Lake George.

  Okay, well, she’s in the general vicinity, but over an hour away. I don’t think Frank’s ever been north of the Bronx, so to him, everything past Riverdale is in proximity to everything else.

  But that’s interesting: Rebecca Mooney took her retirement in a similar touristy-but-rural town. I suppose more people than you’d first think migrate up here in later years, where life moves a little slower.

  I ask Frank, Anything controversial about her retirement?

  Not that I recall. She took the first exit, though.

  He means Mooney retired as soon as she was eligible. Some cops work a little longer, grow their benefits. Mooney bailed at the earliest opportunity.

  I mash out the cigarette on the porch. One more text to Frank, and I’ll go back to bed.

  I type: Michael thinks he might be Tom.

  A second later I add: And he saw a man that night.

  I wait but don’t see the dots. A minute passes, then two, with the water lapping, making sucking sounds as it jostles beneath the docks. Frank has yet to respond. But that’s how it works with texting. You never know.

  Only it gives me an uneasy feeling as I climb the gentle hill back toward the house, checking my phone as I go.

  On my way, I see a light turn out upstairs.

  * * *

  In the morning, I knock on the closed door to Joni’s room; breakfast is ready. No one answers. I knock again and listen close for a moan, a groan — something. It’s ten a.m., but there’s no response. The door is unlocked. “Jo? Michael? Coming in . . .”

  The bed is empty, the covers mussed. Clothes and shoes litter the floor on Joni’s side; the bedside table is crowded with half-drunk glasses of water, wadded tissues, some loose bills and change, a John Sandford hardback book she probably got from the family room downstairs.

  Michael’s side of the bed is the opposite: neat and tidy. A pair of hard-soled shoes is lined up next to a folded pair of pants and his black duffel bag. His phone is plugged into the wall. They can’t be far.

  I open a window to get out the musky sleep-smell and linger a moment. Michael’s bag is zipped closed, but I bet his diary is still inside.

  “Hey,” Paul says from the doorway.

  I fight the urge to hurry out of the room. I’m done trying to hide any of this. “Where are the kids?”

  “They were up early. Ate and put on shoes, went for a walk.”

  “A walk?”

  “I know, right? Who body-snatched our daughter?”

  Joni is still young, still figuring out who she is — but until now, our daughter abhorred physical recreation. It was always Sean who was outdoorsy and athletic, while Joni preferred . . . other hobbies.

  “Hobbies” such as taking off in the middle of the night as a teenager, leaving no word of where she was going or whom she was with. Bronxville looks like a cozy, wealthy town on the outside. And it is . . . but then there’s the side that tourists and casual observers easily miss. It is a home to surgeons and lawyers and finance gurus — as well as at least one network news celebrity and one pro athlete — and people forget that these affluent, overachieving individuals tend to have children. Children with trust funds and private school enrollments and bad attitudes. Kids who get into trouble, and get into it young. Alcohol, drugs, sex. And not like in the eighties, when Paul and I grew up. The world is scarier today, I think. The consequences more dire.

  If Joni has emerged from that and is the type to take Sunday morning walks with her fiancé, then good for her. “Maybe we didn’t completely screw her up,” I say.

  Paul nears me. “No, we did, but kids are resilient.”

  He means it to be funny, I’m sure, but it leaves me cold. I push past him out of the room.

  “Hey, so, I need to go into town and get some more stain for the boat.”

  I stop at the top of the stairs. “Okay. Can you take the pickup?”

  “You got something you need? I can grab it for you.”

  “I’m not sure right now. I’d like to just have the rental on hand, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure.”

  I flash a smile,
say “Thanks,” and head down the stairs.

  I’ve been checking my phone all morning for a reply from Frank, but nothing. I tell myself it could be anything — Frank is a grown man, beholden to no one. But it adds to my worries. Why did Frank suggest Laura Bishop was framed by police? Or, at least, that they used desperate measures to close the case?

  Furthermore, who sent me the voice message with “I want my mommy back”? Who scrawled it in the boathouse? How genuine is Michael’s story, his implication that he’s forgotten his real past? Why is Steven Starzyk so interested in Laura Bishop’s release? Who does Michael think was the man outside the house?

  Did Michael seek me out? Or is that incredibly narcissistic of me?

  Does he know about his mother’s release? Is that part of why he’s here?

  Does Laura Bishop believe she was falsely convicted?

  I don’t have the answers to any of these questions. The only thing I’m sure of is that little Tom Bishop witnessed his mother kill his father. That’s what he eventually told me. And that’s what he told the cops.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  With Paul gone into town, Joni and Michael out walking, and Sean off somewhere, too, I have the house to myself. I’m searching through Joni’s things for another cigarette when my phone rings.

  “Frank!”

  “It’s me.”

  “It’s good to hear from you.”

  “Listen, I got something for you.” His voice sounds funny; a little strained.

  “You okay?”

  “Doug Wiseman,” Frank says. “I’m having some trouble tracking where he is now, but he’s a New York guy. Born and bred. And he was — well I don’t know if it was dating or what you’d call it — but he was involved with Laura Bishop after the murder. She was gonna leave town with him. Move away and start over, I guess.”

  “How did you find this out?” I leave Joni’s room and enter my own. Close the door.

  “That’s the thing. I kept looking into the Tom Bishop I found in Arizona, and one of his residences was at a place owned by Wiseman. I don’t know if it does anything for you, but there it is.”

  I don’t know either. Ever since Michael came forward, admitting his past, the Tom Bishop from Arizona has seemed to be someone else. But with the Wiseman connection . . . Has Tom/Michael just not shared that part of his story yet? It’s possible.

  “But listen,” Frank says, “I gotta talk to you about something else. That’s why I called.”

  “Something happen last night?”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I, um . . . this is as far as I can go, Em. I’m gonna have to let this one go.”

  It takes me by surprise. “Frank, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you out.”

  “You didn’t. Nah, you didn’t. I just had something come up. You know how this business goes. All it takes is all you’ve got.”

  He’s lying. I can hear it in the pitch of his voice. In the spaces between the words.

  “I’m just sorry I can’t go any farther with it, Emmy. I want to help you out, but . . .”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Yeah, well . . . Listen, you take care, Doc. I’ll be seeing—”

  I catch him just before he can hang up. “Did someone contact you? Put you off this?”

  Frank is quiet a moment. “It’s best if we let it go.”

  Bingo.

  “Just tell me if it was Starzyk.”

  I listen to silence. The faint background noise of a TV.

  It has to be.

  “How about Mooney, Frank? Were you able to talk to her? You said she was retired in Lake George. Maybe she’ll talk to me?”

  “I’m sorry, Emily.”

  “You know, Frank,” I say, in a quick whisper, “they were pressuring me. Worried she was about to leave town. Or, as I know now, was about to take off with Wiseman.”

  This could very well be why Frank is shying away. Corrupt cops framing a woman for the murder of her husband? You hear about planting evidence, but planting, so to speak, a child’s statement? Hiding the coercion behind the work of a consulting psychotherapist?

  Bad stuff. Stuff cops would do anything to protect.

  “Frank?”

  But my old pal is gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I have Starzyk’s number in my phone. I think about calling him. But what would I say?

  And what am I getting into?

  “Mom?” It’s Sean, downstairs, having just come in from outside.

  I glance at my watch — getting close to noon. I’ve spent all morning up here getting consumed by this.

  “Be right down!”

  I wash first, like my hands are dirty. My reflection looks guilty, my brown eyes dark and ringed with doubt.

  Sean is in the kitchen, sweating in his tank top and shorty-shorts. He’s slamming a glass of water.

  I put on a big smile. “Hi — go for a run?”

  He nods, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I did the Mirror Lake loop twice. Where is everybody?”

  “Out. Your father is in town, and I guess your sister and Michael took a walk. You didn’t see them?”

  Sean shakes his head and drinks some more water. Sweat beads his upper lip. He’s tan and healthy-looking, the ropy muscles of his legs standing against his skin. He must catch me looking. “What?”

  “I’m just proud of you.”

  “Well, don’t be too proud, I guess.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know,” he says.

  “Sean, people try to figure it out forever. You’re already doing it. You’re already living your life. This is it. The future is what we do today. You’re making money, you’re taking care of yourself. Who cares if you’re not sticking to one career path?”

  He cocks an eyebrow at me like I’m nuts. “You do something to my mother?”

  I hit his shoulder and he cracks a smile, then busses my cheek before heading upstairs, redolent of perspiration and fresh air. “I’m gonna hit the shower.” He pauses halfway up: “We got plans for this afternoon?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “I want to take Mike out on the sailboat,” he says.

  And then he’s upstairs and the bathroom door closes.

  Mike.

  My son is amazing, I think. Despite the sudden controversy around Michael, Sean seems drawn in, not keeping a distance. But then, Sean’s always been that way. Outgoing, friendly. Joni was always the withdrawn one, while Sean went right up to complete strangers. We even joked that he’d go off with the milkman if we weren’t careful.

  I start pulling things out of the fridge for lunch, and my good humor ebbs. If what I’m about to embark on has any success — showing that Starzyk and Mooney put a frame around Laura Bishop — then my family is going to be dealing with something very different than a young man whose own mother killed his father. It will look like the cops used an eight-year-old boy to put her away.

  Plus, if it were me who’d spent fifteen years in prison for a crime I didn’t commit, I’d probably be out for revenge.

  * * *

  It’s after lunch, though still no sign of Joni or Michael. Sean has eaten and repaired to the living room, where he’s lying on the couch, looking at his phone.

  “Sean? I have to go out for a while.”

  “Okay,” he says, distracted. Then, “Where you going?”

  “To see a friend. It’ll take a couple of hours. You need anything?”

  He lifts his head up so he can see me over the back of the couch. “I’m good. Gonna just chill here, wait for them to get back.”

  Perfect. I decide to leave now before I talk myself out of it.

  I checked into Mooney this morning and found an address in the White Pages online. Jacob R. Mooney. No mention of Rebecca, but Mooney is a fairly unusual name and Frank said Lake George, so it’s probably not a coincidence.

  The rental is a sleek little Toyota Camry, black. There are scratches around the ignit
ion from where previous renters tried to insert the key. But it’s a good car, drives solidly and speedily, and I make the hour-long trip in one piece.

  The GPS brings me to a rustic cabin on the north shore of a large, oblong lake. Lake George is fed by the Hudson River, and the Mooney place is at the end of a winding, wooded road where the river ends and the lake begins.

  The rain is back, blowing hard on the water. I see someone in the window as I get out and run for the door. A man about Paul’s age, but heavier, greets me with a tentative smile.

  “Help you?”

  “I’m looking for Rebecca Mooney?”

  He has a mostly white beard and penetrating blue eyes. “Yeah, okay — who are you?”

  I explain that I’m an old acquaintance. That I consulted on cases with her. “There’s one I’d like to talk to her about, but her number is unlisted and cell phone just goes to voice mail.”

  “We shut our phones off,” he says, giving me an up-and-down look. The entrance has an awning, but I’m still getting wet from the raindrops pinging everywhere, back-splashing my legs.

  “I’m really sorry to bother you,” I say. “I would never do anything like this. But . . . to tell you the truth, it’s personal.”

  “How did you find us?”

  “Google.”

  He shakes his head like the internet is a scourge. He’s wearing shorts and sandals but a flannel shirt. His name is likely Jacob, the homeowner listed online. He glances back into the house as he gives the matter some thought. With his attention back on me fully, he asks, “Where did you say you were from?”

  “Westchester.”

  “You just drove all the way up here?”

  I tell him about my lake house, much closer. While we talk, I’m hunched over, trying to keep out of the rain. His face softens, like he’s taking pity. “Listen, come in. Come in.”

  “Thank you.”

  Once we’re inside, he closes the door behind me, muffling the sharper sound of rain. Now it’s a vibration, a drumming on the roof and eaves. “Nasty weather,” I say.

  “Yeah. We need it though.”

  The foyer is nice, sided in knotty pine, with an opening onto a likewise rustic kitchen. I see a cast-iron stove, maple countertops, classic farm-style linoleum that’s a ruddy brown. The setup triggers thoughts of the Bishop home.