Little Girls(36)

OFCs Caprisi and McElroy conducted a search of the rooftop room. The door leading up to the room had been left open. One of the windows was broken, consistent with Ms. Larosche’s story. There was blood on the carpet as well as what appeared to be fecal matter. The room was otherwise empty.





Ms. Larosche was provided with the appropriate contact information should she feel the need to seek counseling or speak with an officer regarding any further details she might remember about the incident.





Once she finished reading, she leaned back on the sofa and ran fingers through her hair. The details were vague, and offered hardly any more information than Mr. Claiborne had over the phone after it had happened, with one shocking exception: According to the police report, the window had apparently been shut when Myles Brashear had jumped out of it. Laurie supposed that if one were about to commit suicide, such things might not matter in the grand scheme of things . . . though it seemed an awfully morbid, awfully painful way to do it. But then she had to remind herself that her father hadn’t been thinking rationally by that point. His mind must have been a nightmarish landscape populated by demons.

Laurie got up and went to the kitchen, where she had piled the paperwork they’d gotten from Cushing’s office along with the documents she had brought down with her from Hartford. She thumbed through the papers until she found Mr. Claiborne’s phone number at Mid-Atlantic Homecare. Pouring herself another glass of sherry, she dialed the number and listened to it ring several times before Claiborne’s breathy yet articulate voice came on the line.

“Hi, Mr. Claiborne, this is Laurie Genarro, Myles Brashear’s daughter.”

“Oh, yes. Ms. Lorton said she turned things over to you and your husband earlier in the week. I trust everything is satisfactory at the house?”

“The house is fine, but there is a padlock on one of the doors upstairs. The caretaker who stayed nights at the house, Teresa Larosche, has the key, but I don’t have a number for her. I was hoping she was available so I could speak with her?”

“Goodness. All keys were supposed to be turned over to you upon your arrival. Are you certain your husband hadn’t received it, Mrs. Genarro?”

“No, he hasn’t. Is Ms. Larosche available?”

“She isn’t, no.”

“Has she been reassigned? Perhaps there’s a phone number where—”

“She turned in her resignation, I’m afraid.”

“She quit? So recently?”

“Immediately following the . . . incident . . . with your father. She was rather troubled by the whole thing, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Laurie wondered if, in fact, Claiborne had fired the poor woman in an effort to show good faith in case Laurie decided to file a lawsuit. She decided not to ask him about it. “Is there a forwarding number? Some way I can reach her?”

“There is probably a home phone or cell number in her file.”

“That would be great. Could you check, please?”

“You see, Mrs. Genarro, it’s against policy to give out that information to people outside the organization. I’m sure you can understand the position I’m in.”

“My lawyer didn’t seem to think you’d have a problem providing any information on request,” she said, and although she had no idea what Charles Claiborne looked like, she could imagine his eyes growing comically wide on the other end of the telephone following the sharp intake of breath she heard. “Is there a problem, Mr. Claiborne?”

“Ah, there’s . . . ah, no, there’s no problem,” Claiborne stammered. He cleared his throat, the sound alarmingly similar to the report of a small-caliber pistol, and Laurie could suddenly hear the man’s fingers rapidly clacking away on a keyboard. “These records,” he grumbled, though he did not complete the sentiment. “Ah, yes. Here we are. No cell phone, but there is a home phone number.”

“That’ll do.”

Claiborne prattled off the number and she jotted it down on the pad beside the phone. Before she even set the pen down, the breathy little voice was already back in her ear. “If there is anything you or your lawyer need during this time—an understandably stressful time, I am sure, and how horrible this whole thing is—please do not hesitate to get back in touch with me. The whole staff here at Mid-Atlantic Homecare feel awful about the—”

“Thank you,” she said, and killed the line. Once the dial tone returned, she punched in Teresa Larosche’s telephone number. It rang only twice before a paper-thin voice answered. “Is this Teresa Larosche?”

“Yes.” She sounded very young.

“My name is Laurie Genarro. My father was Myles Brashear.” Laurie paused to allow the girl time to digest the information. When no response came, Laurie said, “Hello? Are you still there?”

“I’m here. I’m sorry about what happened.”

“It was just a terrible accident,” she said, hoping this would help relieve Teresa Larosche of any concern she might have that Laurie held her accountable. “I’m sorry you had to be there the night it happened.”

Silence on the other end of the telephone.

“Ms. Larosche, there’s a padlock on the door upstairs that leads to the belvedere and I don’t have a key—”