The Lies I Told(80)

But Marisa’s words played over and over in my head, and concentrating on anything else was a shit show. Out of the car, I lit a cigarette. I’d promised myself I’d quit the smoking as soon as I retired, and technically, I still had six days and five remaining packs to finish.

I inhaled, letting the smoke trail up as I stared at Marisa’s window. The lights were on. She was up and about.

Every fucking time I looked at her face, I saw her mirror image lying on the medical examiner’s table. Pale, drawn, slack jawed. I remembered how the pathologist’s blade had slid over Clare’s chest and around her breasts as the doctor made his Y-incision. I’d felt such rage and sadness and to this day still carried some of it.

Both Clare and Marisa looked so much like their mother. Elizabeth Stockton had been found by the family’s housekeeper while the girls were at school and the husband on a business trip. Elizabeth had been lying in a bathroom, naked in a tub filled with cool water. Her body was cold and still. The housekeeper had called the cops, and I’d arrived within an hour of the first responder.

I’d been aware that young children lived in the house, so I’d sent the housekeeper to intercept the girls at school while we tried to track down the father. The housekeeper had taken the girls for ice cream or a trip to the mall. I don’t remember, but she bought us enough time to clear out the body and for the father to finally arrive home that night.

From all accounts, the Stocktons hadn’t had a good marriage. Neighbors reported verbal fights and slamming doors. A few were surprised that Elizabeth had killed herself. She’d sworn she’d keep her marriage together for the sake of the children, whom I believed she was slowly poisoning. And then, just like that, she took a handful of pills and died.

My sights had turned to Mr. Stockton immediately. He was having an affair with an office associate and was often gone for days at a time. A dead wife, especially a rich one, would solve a lot of his problems. Another alarm bell had been the death of the neighbor’s dog, Rex, who came by the Stocktons’ house often for treats that the girls gave him. Rex, healthy and young, had been found dead in his owner’s driveway of an apparent poisoning two weeks before Elizabeth’s death. It wasn’t uncommon for a killer intending to use poison to practice on an easily accessible animal.

And then four years later, Clare had died, and I had two dead females in the same family. One via suicide and the other strangulation. I’d looked hard again at Mr. Stockton. If anything happened to the girls, he could make a reasonable claim that he should inherit their portions of the trust. But Elizabeth, days before she died, had amended her will, declaring that if a child should die, her portion would be split between the survivors. If all three girls should die before their father, the money would be given to the American Cancer Society.

Maybe the Stocktons were just one of those rich, privileged families stalked by tragedy. Maybe some folks just got extra helpings of shit sandwiches. Maybe.

I tossed the cigarette to the asphalt and ground it out with the tip of my polished loafers. I walked up to the front entrance, found it propped open with a rock. The security door was for the residents’ protection, but it could be inconvenient when carrying in a load, and this kind of rigged setup happened a lot. Stupid.

I opened the door, kicked the rock aside, and waited until it closed tightly behind me. Striding toward the elevator, I pressed the button for the top floor. Inside, the floor felt sticky under my feet and smelled of beer. I rode the elevator to the fifth floor.

Two units on this level. Marisa’s was apartment A, the one on the left. But it was the door to B that opened with a quick snap, and my hand slid immediately to my Glock. The habit was so ingrained, I doubted it would ever go away.

The man who appeared was tall, lean, with mahogany-brown hair cut short and combed back. He wore a dark suit, light-blue shirt, and gray tie. He was the kind of corporate guy who lived in this area, only this man looked vaguely familiar. Dressed up on a Sunday, but he didn’t strike me as the churchgoing type.

The man closed and locked his door. “Can I help you?”

“No.” I’d learned long ago that explaining myself only wasted time.

“Are you lost?” The man lingered, looked toward Marisa’s door as if he didn’t like that I was close to it.

“Nope.” I knocked on the door.

“I’m Alan Bernard.”

I reached for my badge. “Detective Richards. What do you do, Alan?”

A brow arched more out of curiosity than alarm. This guy was accustomed to seeing cops. “I’m with the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office.”

And I knew him from somewhere. We’d crossed paths at some point. “Richmond Homicide.”

“There a problem?”

“It’s an old one that goes back a long time.”

Marisa’s door opened, and her gaze darted between the two of us. She wore jeans, a simple T-shirt, and no shoes. Dressed like this, she looked a decade younger, and I was again reminded of the body on the medical examiner’s table.

“Detective Richards?” Marisa said. “Looks like you’ve met my neighbor, Alan Bernard.”

“We just made introductions,” I said.

Alan stepped forward. “He’s with Homicide.”

Marisa’s expression softened. “I know. We go way back. I can explain later.”