Джеймс Паттерсон - Three Women Disappear

I nodded.

“And then someone put a bag loaded with jewelry in your car? Hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of jewels?”

“Yes,” I said, starting to wonder if she believed me, if my story was too much for even Aunt Lindsey to swallow.

“Sounds like a multi-person operation to me,” she said. “Too many things happening at once. Somebody put in a lot of thought, not only into how to kill him but also how to get away with it. You might not remember the event itself, but you’d damn well remember planning it. You’d remember conspiring to commit murder. You’d remember what was said and where it was said and most importantly who said it. So put the idea that you killed Anthony Costello out of your mind. The only question that matters now is, how do we keep you safe?”

Whether I was a six-year-old who’d just scraped her knee or an adult whose life was hurtling off the rails, Aunt Lindsey always knew how to talk me down. She’d cut through what didn’t matter and find the nugget that put everything in perspective. I’d made some wrong turns. My marriage, my job—a woman with her head screwed on right would have said no to both. But I wasn’t a killer. I hadn’t done the one thing that couldn’t be undone.

“Thanks, Aunt Linds,” I said.

She sat back in her chair, folded her arms across her chest.

“The jewels are key,” she said. “Mind if I have a look?”

“They’re in the foyer,” I told her. “I’d get them myself, but my leg—”

She jumped up, fetched the tote bag, came back and tossed it on the table.

“Now show me,” she said.

I pulled the straps apart, rolled the canvas down until the trove was laid bare. Aunt Lindsey just shook her head.

“The things we choose to care about,” she said. “The things we call valuable. In the end, we murder each other over random nonsense.”

She went quiet. I waited, knowing there was more to come.

“Sean and Anna did this together,” she said.

I stared at her.

“Sean and Anna?”

“Hear me out.”

On the surface, Anthony’s murder looked like a crime of passion—“clearly” Anna did the stabbing—but there was something larger at play, something to do with money and matrimony.

“Look at the evidence. Look at who benefits. Two bad marriages snuffed out in one go. Anna doesn’t have to look over her shoulder. Sean doesn’t have to pay alimony. All that’s left is for Sean to arrest you so they can get the loot back.”

My chin fell to my chest. I didn’t know if I was going to cry or fall asleep.

“Even if that’s true,” I said, “what do I do now?”

“Now,” Aunt Lindsey said, “I feed the cook. You need some nourishment. Something that’ll stick to your ribs. Then we’ll talk about the future.”

She went to the refrigerator and pulled out a large Tupperware filled with an old-fashioned, tomato-based stew. She called it her triple threat: three kinds of meat, three kinds of beans, three kinds of vegetables. Ten seconds in the microwave and the room started to smell like an herb garden.

“That’s the stuff that made me a chef,” I said.

I remember the taste of okra and lima beans, pork and cauliflower. I remember letting out a little moan. And then I remember darkness. I’d fallen asleep with my fork in my hand, my plate still heaping.

CHAPTER 12

“THIS IS all very touching,” Haagen said. “Your aunt sounds like a gem. Really, she does. It was good of her to solve the case for you, and it was good of you to pass her insights on to me. Still, if you don’t mind, let’s stick with the facts. Save the alternative theories for court.”

In other words, any attempt to win her over would have the opposite effect.

“You want me to keep going?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Just skip over the parts where your loved ones declare your innocence.”

I woke up in the spare room thinking an hour had passed, but really it had been a whole day. My heart began racing before my brain understood why. There were voices coming from downstairs. At first I thought it was Aunt Lindsey’s TV, blaring as usual. But it wasn’t the TV. A live and heated conversation was unfolding somewhere below me, the deep pitch of a man’s voice overwhelming my aunt’s soprano.

“Regardless,” the man said.

His voice sounded calm and violent at once, a combination I’d recognize anywhere: my husband, Detective Sean Walsh.

“Regardless nothing,” Aunt Lindsey said. “You need to leave now.”

I slid on my glasses, crossed the hallway to the top of the stairs, and crouched down, listening. I put a hand over my mouth to quiet my breathing.

Sean didn’t know I was up there. Not yet. If he had, Aunt Lindsey wouldn’t have been able to hold him back.

“I’ll leave when I’m satisfied,” Sean said.

I could see down into the living room through a narrow gap between the banister’s posts. I saw the back of the top of his head. I saw Aunt Lindsey’s feet. The two of them were standing inches apart. I told myself that if Sean stepped any closer, I’d come charging down those stairs.

“Why wouldn’t Sarah run to you?” he asked, pressing.

“I have no idea. But like I said, she’s not here. Maybe she realized she should go to the police.”

“She didn’t go to the police.”

“How do you know? Maybe she called another precinct. Maybe they kept it from you for a reason.”

Aunt Linds , I thought, be careful now .

“You’re sure she didn’t reach out to you?” Sean asked. “Even by phone?”

“No,” she told him. “I mean yes, as in, yes, I’m sure that no, I haven’t heard from her.”

“Lindsey, let me spell this out for you. Your niece is in trouble. She’s in trouble from every possible angle. I know you don’t trust me, don’t believe my intentions are good. I know you know—or you think you know—that she and I have had our difficulties. But I’m the only one who can help her now.”

“You’re right: I don’t believe in your good intentions. But that doesn’t change the truth: I haven’t seen Sarah or heard from her.”

“Really? Then why is that here?”

He was pointing.

“What?” she asked.

“That.”

I craned my neck. His finger was aimed at the insulin kit. Aunt Lindsey could explain why she kept one in the house easily enough, but could she explain what it was doing in plain view?

“That’s just …” she began. I heard her brain working to invent a story. I knew Sean heard it, too. “That’s just a travel kit. I always keep one for her. You know that. And every few months I re-stock it. As any good nurse would do.”

“You’re a generous soul,” Sean said.

Translation: He didn’t buy a word she was selling.

“Listen,” he said, “I need your help. I’m launching a statewide search, just in case Sarah’s been abducted. I need photos. Lots of photos. Long hair, short hair. Summer clothes, winter clothes. No one has more pictures of Sarah than you.”

He turned toward the staircase. Toward me. I yanked my head back. Sean wasn’t asking; he was declaring. He knew she kept her family albums in the upstairs study.

“Wait,” Aunt Lindsey said.

He was mounting the steps now, his badge flashing on his hip, his gun glistening in its holster. I scrambled away.

“I don’t have any photos of her up there,” she said.

Sean sniggered, as if she’d just confirmed something for him. He kept climbing.

“You don’t, huh? I saw a gallery’s worth in your study last time I was here. I’m sure any of them would—”

“No,” she said.

I was crouched down at the far end of the hallway, too scared to stand and run.