Memory of Murder

Chapter 9

I am not sure what made me choose the woman to die first. I think perhaps I wanted to spare her the agony of watching her husband die. Maybe she had softened my heart, a little bit, after all. Yes, even then.

Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.

FBI Files, Restricted Access,

Declassified 2010

For the first time, he kissed her without pretense or role-playing, with no one watching, no one to impress or mislead. Kissed her simply because he wanted to, and because it seemed so natural and right that it was almost impossible not to. Kissed her the way he wanted to, without counting the seconds-Long enough? Too long?-or worrying how an onlooker would judge it. Too intimate? Not intimate enough?

She smelled sweet, like shampoo and soap, but tasted of the salt tears she’d shed. Her lips quivered slightly when they first touched his. Then they grew soft, and warm…and became his, became a part of him, that part he kept locked away most of the time, the part that was gentle and giving and that needed, most of all, to love. It had been a long time since he’d opened up that part of himself to a woman, and he did so now with a sense of profound happiness. A ball of warmth filled his chest-warmth that felt like sunshine. Like joy.

Needing, finally, to release some of that happiness, he broke the kiss with a soft, bemused laugh, his hands cupping the rounds of her shoulders, gently kneading. She turned her face to one side and laughed, too, although the sound she made seemed more wounded than joyful. He wondered if it was that or his own need that prompted him to slide his hands upward along her neck to cradle her head when he should have been letting her go…saying no…stepping away. But then she tipped back her head and those thick lashes lifted, and he found himself gazing into those incredible eyes, and he didn’t wonder or question or think a single moment longer.

For a long, long moment she looked into his eyes, while his thumbs stroked her temples, cheekbones…and into her hair. He watched her eyes grow slumberous, the lashes flutter down, and he dipped his head and, with great tenderness, kissed the dampness there. He brushed his lips across the velvety skin of her cheek and felt desire crawl along his nerve endings like flames licking oil. And when she let her head fall back into his hands, offering her throat to his questing mouth, he took it, but quivering with restraint, half-afraid of his own hunger.

Her breath escaped in a sigh, stirring his hair. He felt her move, shift slightly as she untied the belt on her robe, and he let his hands slide down, slipping under the robe, into the humid warmth beneath. She was so warm…her skin still moist and fragrant from her shower. Her bones, woman’s bones, small and slight beneath silken skin and delicate muscle, nevertheless seemed to pulsate beneath his palms with strength and energy and life.

Desire flooded through him, all but overwhelmed him. He’d never known such hunger for a woman. Which is why it was such a shock to him when he heard his own voice saying, “No.”

She murmured something, and he felt her sway under his hands, just a little, as if she’d been buffeted by an unexpected gust of wind. Feeling battered himself, he tugged her robe back together and stood for a moment with his eyes closed, breathing hard. “Bad idea,” he murmured, half to himself. On so many levels.

She didn’t argue with him. Didn’t protest, or beg, or ask why, although he could feel her body trembling and knew she must be as overcome with desire and disappointment as he was.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a rasping voice, and she only nodded, standing very still, neither moving toward him nor away.

It hit him, then, what a rare woman she was, and how much he liked her. Respected her. Valued her. Wanted her. Voices clamoured in the back of his mind-maybe in front of it, too-strident, derisive, frustrated, confounded voices. You idiot, what more do you want? She suits you, in so many ways. She’s everything you could ever want in a woman, and then some. She’s perfect for you, and you’re a fool. You’re going to regret this.

Probably. Almost certainly. Which only made it all the harder to tell himself this was the way it had to be.

Lindsey turned away from him, finally, one arm folded across her waist, hand clutching the collar of her robe. With the other she reached out and touched the photo of the wedding couple as she stared down at it.

“So,” she said in a flat, muffled voice, “it’s true then? My father is not my father, and my mother is not who I thought she was…it’s all true?”

Alan had to clear his throat before he could answer her. “I’m still connecting the dots. I’ll tell you everything I know so far, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to do it on the way.”

“On the way?” She lifted her head to frown at him. “Where?”

“That’s…why I came over, actually. Do you have any plans for the rest of the day? This evening? We probably won’t get back until pretty late.”

“No-no, I don’t have any plans… Back from where?”

“Los Angeles. One of those dots that needs connecting. A private investigator…” He caught a breath. No way in hell he was telling her who he suspected this private investigator might be, not when she was so vulnerable. Not when he was so susceptible to her vulnerability. He’d managed to tell himself no once; he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to do it twice. “I think he might have some answers for us. He lives in Laurel Canyon, and according to his wife, he should be home and available to see us this evening. If we leave now, we can make it before dinnertime-it’s a weekend, so traffic shouldn’t be a problem.” Although, he reminded himself, with the L.A. freeways, you never knew.

“Give me fifteen minutes,” she said, and headed for the stairs.

He’d been right about the traffic, although he’d forgotten to take into account the storm traveling down the coast from its birthplace in the Gulf of Alaska. California’s winter storms were late arriving this year; normally, by mid-November there would have been at least one good rain, but this year the jetstream had stayed stubbornly to the north, carrying the long-awaited rains off to the east before they had a chance to do more than sprinkle on Orange County and points south. It looked like this one might make it all the way to San Diego, good news for a city operating on permanent water conservation protocols.

Driving north on I-5 was like heading into night. With the short autumn day and the ominous darkening blue-gray sky ahead, most cars had their headlights on even though it was still mid-afternoon. As he drove, Alan told Lindsey what he and Carl had found out so far, being careful to lay out for her only the facts, keeping their suppositions to himself.

She sat quietly listening, looking through the contents of the file folder he’d brought, and when he’d finished, she tapped the printed copy of the article from the Richmond paper.

“And…you believe this woman, the one the fishermen found, is the same one that disappeared in Baltimore along with her husband? The one you believe is my mother?”

You ID’d her yourself, he thought, but only said cautiously, “It’s a possibility. The timing’s right.”

She made an impatient gesture and dropped the article back into her lap. “It’s a terrible picture. I can’t tell anything from this. Nobody can.”

“She fits the general description,” Alan pointed out. “And the head injury matches.” He waited a beat, then added gently, “According to Richmond PD, a man claiming to be the woman’s husband showed up three days later. Apparently, she had no memory of him whatsoever. He produced documents-a birth certificate and marriage license-as proof Jane Doe was his wife. According to those documents, the couple’s names were Roger and Sally Phillips. She was released into his custody, and that was the last anyone saw or heard of them.”

“Okay, so…?”

“Documents are easily forged. Don’t forget, that was before computers and national and international databanks. Long before DNA. Wanna know what I think?” He gave her a quick glance and saw anger-or maybe tears-bright in her eyes. “I think Roger and Sally Phillips ceased to exist the day they walked out of that hospital in Richmond, Virginia. And that they were reborn sometime thereafter in San Diego, California, as Richard and Susan Merrill. And, there’s one other thing.” He paused, fortifying himself, knowing how hard this next bit of news was going to be for her. “When is your birthday?”

He heard her soft intake of air. “My birthday? May twelfth, 1970-why?”

Keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead and his voice even, he told her. “According to the hospital records, Jane Doe, aka Sally Phillips, was approximately four weeks pregnant when she was fished out of the Chesapeake Bay in early September, 1969. She might not have even known herself she was pregnant, at the time. But her baby would have been born, most likely, sometime around the first to the middle of May…1970.”

The silence inside the car seemed profound, even eclipsing the roar of freeway traffic beyond the windows.

Alan said, “Lin-” but got no further before she interrupted, shaking her head vehemently “Don’t. Just…don’t…say anything.”

He waited patiently while she struggled with it, and wasn’t surprised when she finally drew a reinforcing breath and spoke in a calm voice, tight with self-control. “I don’t care what you think. I will not believe my father-my dad-could have done anything to hurt, much less kill, my mother. Maybe he did claim her at the hospital, even gave a fake name-and you don’t have any proof he did, by the way, do you?” Alan shook his head. She settled back in her seat. “Even if he did, that doesn’t mean he was the one who shot her.”

“She says he is,” Alan reminded her.

She dismissed that with a gesture. “She’s confused. Why on earth would he try to kill her, then-” her voice wobbled and she caught a breath in an unsuccessful attempt to control it “-take her home and…care for her all those years? Why would someone do that? He loved her. He loved me. It doesn’t make any sense.”

The tears in her voice were hard to listen to. He felt them like a weight on his shoulders, and shifted irritably, trying to ease the burden. “Dammit, Lindsey, I know it may not make sense to you. But the facts-”

“Facts? You don’t have facts, you have theories!”

“Theories that fit the facts. Face it-your father, the man you know as Richard Merrill, has been lying to you all your life. He’s not who you believed him to be. When are you going to accept that, and deal with the truth?”

She turned to him in a fury. “And when are you going to understand? This is my father. The man who was always there for me. How would you feel if it were your father? Your dad who-”

“My father,” Alan lashed back, “was an abusive jerk who drove my mother to drink and eventually to suicide. He was never there for either one of us, and quite frankly, it’s been a long time since I felt anything for him whatsoever.”

Silence once again enveloped the car. For several minutes the only sounds he was aware of were the thumping of his own heartbeat and the voice inside his head reading him the riot act for unloading on Lindsey like that. He wished he could say he didn’t know where his outburst had come from, but of course he did know. Hearing his old man’s voice after so many years had definitely stirred up some sleeping demons. But she sure didn’t deserve the fallout.

He was searching for a way to apologize to her when she drew a quick, unsteady breath and said, “Well. I guess that explains a lot.”

Yeah, he supposed it did. He gave a humorless snort of laughter and didn’t say anything, but he was thinking it was a damn good thing he’d told himself no, earlier, when he’d been on the brink of making a huge mistake. There was just no way in hell it was ever going to work between him and Lindsey Merrill, no matter how much he liked, respected, admired and wanted her.

And God help me, I do want her. Still.

They made good time. Traffic was open and fairly free-flowing all the way into downtown L.A. Since it was still early enough, they didn’t have to contend with Music Center traffic. There was some congestion around the I-5/101 interchange, which Lindsey imagined was pretty standard, even early on a Saturday evening, but at least it wasn’t raining. The Alaskan Express seemed to be holding off, for the moment.

When they exited the freeway onto Hollywood Boulevard, she was startled to see the streets already festooned with holiday decorations beginning to sway, now, in the winds that heralded the storm’s imminent arrival. Christmas had seemed a long way off in San Diego-or maybe she’d just been too preoccupied with her own troubles to notice.

The first raindrops smacked onto the windshield as they turned onto Laurel Canyon Boulevard where, thankfully, most of the traffic seemed to be going the other way, as residents of the Valley headed for the entertainment centers in Hollywood and Los Angeles. Even armed with a Mapquest printout and with Lindsey helping to search for house numbers, they drove past the address the first time and had to go up to Mulholland Drive to turn around. But at last they pulled into the miniscule driveway in front of a street-level garage tucked up against the steep side of the canyon.

Alan turned off the motor, and for a few minutes they sat, not talking, listening to the ticking of the cooling engine, the patter of rain on the roof of the car, and the swish of cars passing by on the street behind them, neither of them, apparently, quite ready to face what lay ahead. Lindsey watched Alan’s fingers tapping restlessly on the steering wheel, then looked over at him. Silhouetted intermittently against the headlights, his profile seemed tense…even grim.

“What’s wrong?” she asked after a moment. What aren’t you telling me?

He shook his head but didn’t reply.

“Alan?” Unexpectedly, her voice had begun to tremble. “Okay, you’d better tell me why we’re here, because I’m not getting out of this car until you do. You told me this man is a private investigator who once looked into the case of that couple missing from Baltimore. You said he might have some details, be able to fill in some blanks.”

“That’s true.”

“What else?”

He turned to look at her, finally, and his eyes seemed intent in the half-light. “Didn’t you wonder why he was looking into the couple’s disappearance? What his interest was?”

She shook her head, not understanding-quite-but beginning to. “I didn’t-I guess it didn’t-I just thought…”

He let out an exasperated breath. “Lindsey, this guy’s name is James Holt Kincaid.” He paused while she took that in, and when he went on, his voice was gentler. “He was looking into the disappearance because James and Karen McKinney were his parents.” Another pause. “He was five years old when they went missing.”

Lindsey stared at him. She didn’t say anything because she couldn’t. Couldn’t speak, couldn’t even seem to breathe. She felt cold-with shock, perhaps-then slowly began to shiver, but with anger, not cold. She swallowed once while he waited patiently, then again, fighting for control. After several moments she managed to say quietly, “You think this is ’Jimmy,’ don’t you?”

He wouldn’t look at her. Staring at the windshield, he gave a cautious shrug. “It’s a possibility. Or, it could be a coincidence. Jimmy’s a pretty common name.”

The initial shock of the bombshell was wearing off, and the full implications of what he’d told her were sinking in. “Which would make him my brother, if everything else you’ve told me is true.” She paused…waited. Willing him to look at her. At last she said thickly, “When were you going to tell me?”

He didn’t answer…still wouldn’t look at her. Rage buffeted her, echoing the gusts of wind that now were slamming into the car. She lifted a hand and clenched it into a fist, wishing it was in her to actually hit him with it. Instead, she let it fall limp into her lap and drew a sobbing breath. “When, Alan? Were you going to tell me?”

He gave himself a little shake, and his voice, when it came, was gruff. “I wasn’t sure. I wanted to get your impressions of the man, without any interference…from emotions. I’m sorry. I guess I just couldn’t do it.” He threw her a look she couldn’t read in the dim light and yanked at the door handle. “One thing’s for sure. We aren’t going to find those answers sitting here. Let’s go talk to Mr. Kincaid.”

What could she do? Still shaken, still furious, battered by emotions she didn’t know how to deal with-I have a brother? Oh, my God, Can it be true? I have a brother!-Lindsey opened her door and stepped out into the wind and spattering rain.

There was an iron gate to the right of the garage. When they approached it, a floodlight came on. Alan pressed a button beside an intercom box and spoke into it, giving their names. A moment later the gate slid open to admit them, then creaked shut behind them. As Lindsey followed Alan up zigzagging stone steps, above their heads the wind lashed trailing branches of eucalyptus trees so huge and old their tops were lost in the darkness and rain. The air was pungent with their scent.

When she looked up, trying to make out her surroundings through the rain, she saw that someone was waiting for them on the wooden deck at the top of the stairs. A man, bareheaded in the storm, wearing a long-sleeved dark pullover, hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans. Her legs weakened; she stumbled, and instantly Alan whipped around and his hand was there to steady her, then hold her elbow firmly as he brought her the last few steps remaining. The man on the deck opened the gate in the low wooden railing that surrounded it and held it for them, then closed it after them and thrust out his hand. Grasping Alan’s in both of his, he spoke in a voice raised above the rushing sound of the storm.

“Detective Cameron? I’m Holt Kincaid.”

“I’m Alan. And this is Lindsey.”

Lindsey felt her hand swallowed up by a larger and warmer one; other than that, she was numb.

Holt Kincaid seemed oblivious to the rain that spangled his hair and shoulders and was beginning to drip from the end of his nose. He paused for a moment to look searchingly into her face, then abruptly gestured, urging them to follow him.

“Come inside-this rain’s great, isn’t it?”

“We needed it,” Alan agreed.

He held the door and they stepped into a sunroom, cozy with woven sisal floor mats and wicker furniture with thick, flowered cushions. A playpen occupied one corner of the room, and an assortment of toys were scattered here and there on the cushions and floor. Pots filled with green and flowering plants were everywhere, sitting on the floor and tabletops and hanging from ceiling beams, and Lindsey was reminded suddenly, painfully, of her mother. Thinking how she would love this room…

Their host led them on through a small kitchen that was separated by a wide countertop eating area from a den-like living room. The living room walls were covered in unstylish driftwood paneling, and a gas log burned in a fieldstone fireplace, turned down low. Because she still felt chilled, Lindsey went to stand in front of the fireplace, rubbing her hands together as she held them toward the warmth.

“Please-make yourselves comfortable,” Holt said. “My wife will be right out-she’s putting the baby down.”

“You have a child?” It was Alan who asked the question as if he hadn’t noticed the evidence, which she thought was unlikely. Lindsey turned just in time to catch the smile that burst over Holt’s angular face.

Her breath caught. My God. It’s my mother’s smile.

“We do,” Holt said, beaming and obviously besotted. “Our son Jamie’s just fourteen months old. Now that he’s walking, we’re actively looking for a bigger place-one with a yard he can actually run around in. This has been great for the two of us, but-” he spread his arms to encompass not only the room but the whole outdoors “-as you can see, it’s not exactly kid-friendly.”

“Interesting, though,” Alan commented.

“Uh…can I get you something to drink?” Holt clasped his hands together in a way that betrayed his own nervousness-and for some reason, lessened Lindsey’s. “Are you hungry?”

He looked straight at her, then, and she realized she’d been blatantly staring at him. Now she saw his eyes clearly for the first time. They were her eyes.

Her stomach felt hollow, but she was too queasy to eat. She shook her head. Holt said, “Coffee, then?”

“Yeah,” Alan said, “coffee would be great. Thanks.”

As he busied himself in the kitchen, assembling coffee and accoutrements with the efficiency that suggested a long period of bachelorhood in his past, Holt spoke to them across the counter, picking up Alan’s previous comment.

“Yeah,” he said, “this canyon does have its history.”

“More like legends,” Alan said. “Wasn’t this a hippie mecca during the sixties and seventies? I’ve heard it was a big-time music scene-rock ’n roll, not to mention sex and drugs.”

Holt chuckled. “Oh, yeah. Even before that, though, the Canyon seems to have attracted characters-a lot of them famous. Or infamous. Still does, although it’s more gentrified nowadays. But-” he dusted his hands, having completed his task, and aimed a piercing look across the room to where Lindsey still stood with her back to the fire “-you didn’t come for a Laurel Canyon history seminar.”

He came around the counter, carrying a tray laden with four cups of steaming coffee, spoons and crockery containers of cream, sugar and sweetener. He placed the tray on the coffee table in front of Alan, then picked up the folder that was lying there.

“This it?”

Alan nodded. “That’s it.”

Holt opened the folder. Standing, he went through its contents one page at a time, studying each one before carefully turning it facedown on the left side of the folder. When he’d finished, he sank heavily into a chair across from Alan, the folder still open across his knees. He shook his head. “How could I have missed this? How did Baltimore PD miss this?”

Alan helped himself to a cup of coffee and took a sip of it-black-before he answered. “There wasn’t any reason for it to show up on Baltimore’s radar-or yours, either. She didn’t stay a Jane Doe long enough. Her husband showed up, ID’d her. Nobody questioned it.”

Holt sat for a long moment in silence, staring down at the folder. Then he looked up at Lindsey, and his eyes were gentle. Compassionate. “This must be a tough time for you.”

She managed to smile, even laugh, a little. “Oh, yeah.”

He held up the photo of the young Karen McKinney. “This is my mother. I understand you…think it might be your mother, too.”

She nodded, fighting back tears. Holt said, without smiling, “Well, then, obviously, that would make you my sister.” She nodded again, hugging herself tightly; it was all she could do, it seemed, without breaking down. Holt shook his head and simply said, “Wow.” Lindsey thought, He’s as shaken by this as I am.

And as before, the awareness brought her a measure of calm. She said softly, “This must be hard for you, too. Finding out your mother is alive, after all these years.”

“Might be alive,” Alan broke in, his voice harsh. “We’re still lacking absolute proof.”

“Which, thank God, we can get easily enough,” Holt said briskly. “I’ll make sure you get a DNA sample before you leave.” He closed the folder but held on to it. “But seems to me we have a pretty strong connection here…”

“Connect the dots…” Lindsey murmured, but nobody paid any attention to her.

So, she stood silently and watched them, the two men who had come into her life so unexpectedly and with such catastrophic effect. It struck her how alike they were, without actually looking alike. Same approximate age, similar coloring-dark hair and blue eyes-although Holt had more silver in his hair and deeper creases around his eyes and mouth, and his eyes weren’t quite as hard and steely as Alan’s. They were of similar build and body type, too-tall but not extraordinarily so, slim but muscular-although Alan was more powerfully built. A memory-the glimpse she’d had of him naked to the waist, mopping water drops from his neck and chest-flashed into her mind, and something inside her chest did a peculiar dropping-squeezing maneuver that made her catch her breath, inaudibly, guiltily…

“I agree,” Alan said, setting his coffee down and leaning toward the other man, elbows on his knees. He counted, raising and touching one finger at a time, and Lindsey found herself riveted by the graceful economy of his movements. “One, the McKinneys are abducted from a movie theater parking lot in Baltimore. Two, two days later a Jane Doe matching Karen McKinney’s description is pulled out of the Chesapeake, sporting a head wound that appears to have been caused by a bullet crease. Three, three days after that she’s identified by a man claiming to be her husband, as Sally Phillips, his wife, who is also discovered to be in the early weeks of pregnancy.”

He paused then, as a young woman came into the room, moving quietly to stand behind her husband’s chair. She was small and slender, with short blond hair cut in shaggy layers. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, she seemed very young, barely more than a girl-until she leaned forward into the light, and Lindsey saw that her face wore the kind of serenity that only comes from having lived through the worst life has to offer, and emerged whole and happy on the other side.

Holt looked up, smiled, and took the hand she’d placed on his shoulder. “Hey, there you are. Alan, Lindsey-like to have you meet my wife, Brenna.”

Alan, who had risen with old-fashioned courtesy, nodded and said, “Nice meeting you, Brenna.”

Lindsey nodded, too, and murmured, “Hi.”

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Brenna said. Her voice had a raspy, husky quality, and her eyes were a shade of golden hazel that seemed only a shade or two darker than her hair.

Alan smiled at her and continued. “And…four, Richard and Susan Merrill appear in San Diego, California, Susan gives birth to Lindsey roughly eight months later. Oh-and Susan Merrill also happens to have a scar on her head that closely corresponds to Sally Phillips’s head wound. And, has no record or memory of a past prior to San Diego.”

“Seems like a no-brainer to me,” Brenna said with a shrug.

Holt nodded, but then let out a breath in a frustrated gust. “Okay, I’m pretty much convinced. It all makes sense, except for one thing-why?”