HER PERFECT SECRET a totally gripping psychological thriller Page 16

  The man is looking at me. “You said this was about a case?”

  “It’ll just take a few minutes. Is Detective Mooney . . . is Rebecca here?”

  He delays a reply. “She’s here. Do you . . . When is the last time you spoke to Rebecca? Or saw her?”

  It’s a good question; I think back. “I believe we worked together on one more case. Or maybe it was two. Right around that same time.”

  “Yeah . . .” he says. He runs fingers through his wavy gray hair.

  “Can I ask your name?”

  “Sorry. It’s Jake.” He puts out his hand. After a brief, light handshake, he tilts his head. “That didn’t come up on Google, too?”

  “It said Jacob, but I didn’t want to presume anything. I’m Emily Lindman.”

  I’m eager to talk to Mooney, but she doesn’t seem to be around. Past Jake, through the kitchen, a living room with tall windows overlooks the water. The home is more timber-frame-rustic than our modern lake house. It’s smaller, but charming. And I can smell something — perhaps liquor. Could be coming from Jake.

  “Let me get you a towel,” he says. “Be right back.”

  He walks through the kitchen and turns. I stand there a moment, dripping, then take off the raincoat I’m wearing and find a free hook. That done, I’m less drippy and risk venturing into the kitchen. More smells hang in the air — garlic, basil. I see the remnants of pesto pasta in the sink. On the fridge, a picture of Jake holding up a big fish.

  In another photo, a woman in a sunhat. The angle is bad, the sun silhouetting her. She’s adjusting her hat, and I can just see the whites of her teeth as she smiles. I inch closer.

  A creaking board over my head grabs my attention. I stare up at the ceiling as someone upstairs walks from my left to my right. The rain continues to beat down, but beneath the white noise, I hear muffled voices.

  Something about it sends chills down my back. I need to get out of here. This was a mistake. I don’t know these people. I don’t belong in this house . . .

  I start toward the entryway. As I walk, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I stop where I’ve hung my coat and check — it’s a voice mail from Paul. My phone never rang. But that happens sometimes — bad cell service and the call won’t come through, only the message indicator. I’m about to listen when someone speaks behind me.

  “Here you go.”

  Jake holds out a towel.

  “Oh, thank you.” I take it, force a smile, and dab my face and hair with it.

  Jake watches. He’s a bit awkward. “Rebecca usually takes a nap after lunch. Sometimes she sleeps straight through.”

  Straight through what? I wonder. To dinner? Not unheard of, but it seems out of character with the Mooney I remember. “Is she . . . upstairs?”

  “Yeah. She’s up in the bedroom. You can go on up. She said she’ll see you.”

  “Okay. Great.”

  Jake doesn’t move for a moment. He keeps his blue eyes on me. “I’ll show you up,” he says finally.

  I follow him through the house. Curiosity has replaced my sudden fear. The stairs are open to the living room as we ascend to the second floor, providing for an elevated view of the lake. “This place is wonderful,” I say.

  Jake, lumbering ahead of me, says, “My father and I built it. Thirty years ago. Started as a little hunting camp. Just the kitchen. We kept adding to it.”

  The upstairs has a carpeted hallway — a kind of balcony. The first door is shut, the second door ajar. He pushes it the rest of the way and stands aside for me to enter.

  I hesitate.

  But this is what I’ve come for.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  I step into the room. It’s dim, with one lit lamp on the dresser to my right. Two windows overlook the gravel driveway; I can partially see my car. In the bed, the woman is in shadows. Like in the picture on the fridge, she’s backlit, obscuring her features.

  “Hello,” I say. “Been a long time, Rebecca.”

  The woman in the bed says, “Fifteen years?”

  “About that. Maybe exactly that.” There’s a chair between the dresser and the bed. I sit down.

  Jake says, “Need anything, honey?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “All right.” He gives me one last look, and I see it this time, unequivocally: He’s not thrilled that I’m here. She’s obviously sick, and this is their hideaway, and I’ve just brought the world with me. The past, her career, all of it.

  After Jake leaves, I turn to Mooney. “I’m really sorry to intrude.”

  “He said you seemed desperate.”

  “I guess I am.” As my eyes adjust to the light, I can see her features a little better. She’s thin. She’s wearing a handkerchief on her head. “I didn’t know that you weren’t feeling well.”

  She laughs, and it turns into a coughing fit. I tense, ready to do something, but who knows what. When it subsides, she says, “Not feeling well. Yeah, you could put it that way.”

  There’s the tough chick I remember. The no-nonsense New Yorker personality coming through, even when she’s clearly been weakened by a debilitating illness. Cancer, no doubt.

  “You’re from the city, originally — is that right?”

  “Queens. Born and raised. I worked there for almost ten years before I got transferred up to Westchester. Then I did a little over ten more. But I got sick with breast cancer. I retired, I beat it, and then it came back. It’s in my lymph system.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She waves a hand. “That’s not for sympathy. That’s so you don’t have to sit there guessing, and we can get on to whatever it is you’re here to see me about.”

  I open my mouth, but Mooney says, “Well, I know, though. Why you’re here. I remember you. As soon as Jake said your name. Laura Bishop is out on parole, right? I got a courtesy email, since it was my investigation. They let her go yesterday. Did she call you? Harass you?” Mooney starts coughing again.

  “No, nothing like that.” I wait until Mooney’s lungs settle down and tell her the story. The whole story. She listens completely and doesn’t interrupt. Once I’m finished, I ask her what she thinks.

  “Arnold Bleeker,” she muses. “I remember, he was a real handful. He and his wife — Annie, I think her name was . . .”

  “Alice.”

  “They made a big stink when their sister-in-law was convicted. Even before that. They said we were harassing her. That she was a grieving widow and we were heartless.”

  “Did you . . . were you very interested in Laura Bishop as a suspect?”

  “Oh sure, we liked her for it. Of course we did. Eighty percent of the time it’s someone close to the victim. And we had two witnesses — good witnesses — say that their marriage was on the rocks. That she and her husband were partiers, you know, maybe even swingers. We knew that her business — she was into art dealing, or something — wasn’t doing so hot. The life insurance paid her a million and a half. Plus, she had no alibi. What’s not to like? But we had no hard evidence. And we had a crime scene that was wrecked.”

  “Wrecked,” I repeat. “What do you mean? Contaminated?”

  Mooney’s face is cloaked in shadow, but I sense the air tighten with her trepidation. The word contaminated seems to have caused it. Good. That’s what I’m here for.

  “A few things were suboptimal,” Mooney finally admits. “For one thing, the first cops to respond to the 911, two local PD, they did a perimeter check, walked all around the house. It’s procedure, but they ruined all our tracks. Then the sun took care of the rest the next day.”

  She sighs. For a moment, I think it’s all she’ll say. But then she continues. “The other thing — we had a witness say there was someone parked in the street just prior to the murder, and cigarette butts were found, but the tech had a tear in his glove. Cross-contamination.”

  “I understand.”

  Mooney says, “She, of course, insisted someone else was there, too, Bishop did. But the defense had
the same problem — inadmissible evidence. Nothing to build on. Still, her lawyer said she was pleading not guilty, that it was gonna go to trial. And so I met with her again, and the boy again, and got new statements. But the boy’s didn’t match up. He’d go back and forth from saying his parents were fighting to saying they weren’t. That’s when I submitted to the DA that we get him evaluated.”

  “And that’s when you brought me in.”

  “Correct.”

  I sit for a moment in the dimly lit room, the rain a steady background force. Carefully, I recollect, “You were talking with Tom during the same time period I was. Isn’t that right?”

  “Well, we had to. We couldn’t wait three sessions over a week. Or five sessions over two weeks. Especially not when Laura Bishop was threatening to move.”

  I remember the two cops coming to my office, effectively telling me to speed it along.

  “We were worried because Bishop had linked up with some guy. Someone with resources. Money.”

  “Doug Wiseman,” I blurt.

  “Doug Wiseman,” Mooney agrees. “That’s right. How did you know about him?”

  “I, um . . .”

  Mooney is sharp. “You hired someone.”

  Might as well admit it. “I did. An old friend.”

  “Frank Mills.”

  Her insight is a little disconcerting. But she says, “It came up when we researched you as a consultant. You’d hired him once before. But you knew him before that?”

  I want to ask more about Wiseman, but I quickly indulge her. “Yeah, Frank Mills was a patrol officer when I was in college. We actually met around the time my father died. I was at a really low point; I did some stupid things. Frank helped me. He even had a friend who was a therapist. Sarah Burgess. We lost touch for a while, but he tracked me down years later, found out I was married and had kids. And we’ve been friends since.”

  As she watches me, I can see her mind working. “Has he found out anything else for you?”

  “Just that you were retired here in Lake George. And that there’s a Thomas Bishop in Arizona. Same middle name, birthdate, and physical appearance. A dead ringer. And apparently one of Tom’s residences out there was at a place owned by Wiseman. Can you tell me about him?”

  She gives me a shrewd look but seems to decide something, and the look dissipates. “We became aware of him about two months into the investigation.”

  “Aware of him how?”

  “Well, we had tags on Laura. What that means is we regularly surveilled her, kept track of her movements. She was going out to dinner with this guy, meeting him at his place, all this. He owned a restaurant. I think he still does — at least partly, and from afar. Like a silent partner. Anyway, he started showing up. And then we found out they were planning a move together. That’s when we knew we had to shit or get off the pot.”

  I’m feeling excited despite the gloomy room, my sick host and the tragedy of all of this. “But maybe Wiseman was with her before you noticed him?”

  “Oh sure, it’s possible they knew each other prior to the murder. Very possible. He actually retained David Bishop’s services. Managing some money for him.”

  My heart is beating harder now. “So what happened?”

  “He had a solid alibi. And it looks more likely he dated her after the murders. Three months or so.”

  “But if he knew David before the murder, he could have known Laura.”

  “Could have, sure. But we had no proof. She certainly didn’t admit it.”

  “What was his alibi?”

  “He was traveling.”

  “Where?”

  Mooney puts a hand to her head, like she’s getting fatigued. “I don’t remember. But listen — there’s the thing — the thing I do remember. It always seemed to me like Bishop had someone to blame. An alternative suspect. But she never said who. It was like she was waiting for the trial, and then she’d name someone. But she changed her plea and there never was a trial.”

  “Maybe because she was guilty,” I offer.

  “Maybe.”

  “What was the life insurance situation? Do you remember that?”

  Mooney nods. “She was a beneficiary, but since she murdered the insured, she got nothing, of course. Which was also why I felt it was strange she was withholding this alternative suspect.”

  “How can you be sure she had one?”

  Mooney is silent a moment. “I can’t. But it was in her eyes.”

  I’m about to follow that up with more questions when I hear someone approach. Jake returns and asks how she’s doing. She says she’s fine, but Jake gives me the eyes again. I’m on the verge of overstaying my welcome. Mooney is sick and no longer an active investigator. The space between me and Jake feels heavy.

  “I should get going,” I say, standing.

  “Oh,” Jake says. “Yeah, okay.” He seems obviously relieved. And Mooney doesn’t object.

  But I have one last question.

  “Before I go. One professional to another. One human being to another. Do you think everything that happened with the Bishop case was . . . ?” I stop short of saying above board. “Did it go as best as it could?”

  “Was it by the book? Mistakes were made, I’ll say that. Multiple mistakes. But do I think we got the bad guy in the end?” She’s contemplative. “As soon as we had the boy as our witness, I mean, once he opened up to you, Bishop changed her plea to guilty. What else is there? For the law, nothing.”

  I am able to see Mooney clearly now. Her gaunt face and sunken eyes. I remember the sassy detective. I remember thinking that she put up a bit of a front — tough, even butch — in order to hang with the boys. To deal with the men surrounding her, to avoid showing any vulnerabilities. I’ve known women like Mooney my whole life, who take a hard job, who have to work twice as hard.

  I can tell when they’re scared. I can see through the bravado.

  Rebecca Mooney is scared.

  * * *

  Halfway down the gravel road, I pass by a pickup truck going the other way. The weather is still grim and rainy, and the man behind the wheel is an obscure figure. But his brake lights flash as I pass. And as I descend a small hill, one last glance in the mirror makes me think he’s stopped.

  I drive distractedly for a few minutes, constantly checking my mirrors. I also pull out the tape recorder in my pocket and rewind twenty minutes’ worth of conversation. It’s the same tape recorder I’ve been using for twenty years, analog, not digital.

  I hit play.

  “. . . were suboptimal,” Mooney says on the tape. “For one thing, the first cops to respond to the 911, two local PD, they did a perimeter check, walked all around the house . . .”

  I stop playback, feeling that thrill again. If anyone needs convincing that mistakes were made by the police back then, Mooney is the one to admit it. While she seemed scared at the end, I also felt her desire to come clean. Maybe purge herself of her sins before she meets an untimely end?

  Back in civilization, I navigate the main drag in Lake George, bustling with tourists in the late summer season. I realize I haven’t checked the message from Paul and I’m about to when I catch sight of the pickup truck in my side mirror. It’s waiting for the light like I am, about five cars back — I’m pretty sure it’s the same one, a gray Ford Super Duty.

  Waiting for the light, I check my voicemail.

  “Em!” Paul sounds frantic. “Where are you? Listen, Em, there’s been an accident.”

  I almost don’t register the words, since I’m so focused on the truck.

  But the next words are crystal clear: “Sean is hurt,” Paul says. “It’s bad, Em. It’s bad. Call me back. Try to get here as soon as you can.”

  The message ends. I’m so stunned that it’s not until the car behind me blares its horn that I get moving. I forget about the gray Ford truck, I forget about everything, just focusing on what I have to do — drive the car to the interstate, head north, get to my son.

  My boy . .
.

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  TRANSCRIPT OF 911 CALL

  OCTOBER 27

  911: 911, what’s your emergency?

  Caller: Um, my dad is hurt.

  [Noises in the background.]

  911: He’s hurt? What’s the matter with him?

  Caller: He’s dead.

  [Woman in background: We don’t know that yet!]

  Caller: He might be . . . he might be okay. My mom says. But he’s—

  911: Where are you, honey? What’s your address?

  Caller: Um, it’s 2113 Pondfield Road. In Bronxville.

  911: Okay. What’s your name?

  Caller: Tom.

  911: Tom, can you tell me what happened to your daddy?

  Caller: He got hit by a hammer.

  911: Hit by a hammer? Did he hurt himself?

  Caller: No, someone did.

  911: Do you know who?

  [Woman in background: Tell them to send an ambulance!]

  911: Is that your mother?

  Caller: Yes.

  911: Is she with your father?

  Caller: Uh-huh.

  911: You can tell her an ambulance is on the way. Is your father breathing?

  Caller [muffled]: Mom, is Daddy breathing?

  [Woman in background: unintelligible.]

  Caller: She says he’s not. He’s, um, not breathing. Is my dad gonna be okay?

  911: We’re coming, honey. We’re coming to help him . . .

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I don’t remember the drive.

  That’s not entirely true. I remember going eighty-five miles an hour, ninety at times, and thinking that if my excessive speed alerted a state trooper, that trooper would have to chase me all the way home. If I’d had ten police cars and a helicopter on me by the time I got there, I wouldn’t have cared.

  I also recall trying Paul’s phone over and over again. Listening to the ringing through the car speakers. Cutting off his outgoing message: “Hi, you’ve reached Paul Lindman. I’m actually on vaca—”