Severed Relations Page 4

  Cori started down the walk but when Finn cut sharply to the right she did too. When she caught up with him, Finn had hold of an impressive Italian cypress, one of ten that grew against the side of the house like tall, trim soldiers. He pulled on it and the tough old trunk gave a little. He let it go a second later.

  "Shoddy work, that. Who puts an alarm in front of the gate? It's not even hooked up to a call center. All the money in the world and no common sense, that's what we have here. They stood on the brick when they cut the alarm. No footprints in the dirt. Easily done."

  "They don't close these suckers."

  Cori crossed the wide driveway, took hold of one side of the wrought iron gate, and gave it a tug. It didn't move. She pointed to the rust stained hole in the cement where the latch nestled. Finn took hold of the other one and pulled on it, but he had no luck either. He looked back at the side of the house, still curious about the alarm box.

  "Whoever cut the wires on that thing didn't have to be taller than a leprechaun or brighter than the village idiot," he said.

  Cori ambled back over and pushed between two trees to get a good look. When she pulled her head out, she swiped at her hair to clear away any needles stuck in her do.

  "Yeah, but he could have been tall and smart. The alarm is so basic it would have taken seconds to snip it," she said. "Did you see the front door lock?"

  "Nothing to see. No sign of forced entry. Anyone worth their salt could have popped it in a jiffy."

  "Maybe the nanny opened the door for whoever it was." Cori dug in her purse, found her sunglasses and put them on.

  "Then why bother cutting the wires?" Finn asked.

  "Because whoever it was had come on some serious business and he wasn't taking any chances," Cori answered. "The nanny just didn't know that when she let him in. Maybe it was someone looking to harm the parents and flipped out when they weren't there. The nanny wouldn't have thought twice about opening the door. Everybody feels safe in a place like this."

  Finn shook his head. "I'm not feeling like that's how it went down. And, if that were the case, they would have taken her out in the entry. Why go up to her room?"

  Finn walked up the driveway. He looked at the steps and raised porch outside the kitchen door and then at the garage at the end of the driveway. He ran his eyes around the backyard: pool, patio furniture, children's play yard, grass, trees, flowers. This property was a lot to take care of and they would be chasing a bushel of people who had access to it. Since none of them were around at the moment, he rejoined Cori.

  "Come on then. We've seen what we can see here."

  They walked down the long driveway, watching the neighbors roll back like a retreating tide. Only the reporters remained, stranded on the island of Finn's consciousness. They moved restlessly. Dissatisfied with what Fowler had given them, they pointed cameras at Finn, raised their hands, and pushed their microphones his way. They called out to him and he ignored them. They had burned him at the stake once without so much as asking if he should be standing atop the fagots. They had snuffed out the bonfire months later dubbing him a hero, a saint, a man among men instead of a cop killer but only after a video exonerating him surfaced. As far as Finn was concerned, the members of the press were bottom feeders all and he would have nothing to do with them. Of course, that didn't stop them from trying to reel him in.

  "Detective O'Brien." A female reporter from ABC news called out first. "Aren't you just back off of suspension? How are you feeling?"

  "Hey, O'Brien, how's the team work in there?" hollered another. "What can you tell us about the kids. Who found them? Is it murder/suicide? Come on O'Brien."

  Another voice rose and then someone else's after that. The reporters were salivating, already tasting a sound bite as juicy as a slab of prime rib if Finn O'Brien lost it. Cori stepped close.

  "Give them a little something," Cori muttered. "Maybe they'll go away."

  "When I need them, Cori, and no sooner." Finn flipped a hand toward the car with its yawning trunk. "We still have work to do."

  Cori and Finn looked over the things that had spilled out of the luggage and now littered the driveway. There were souvenirs for the children: tiny t-shirts, a book of French fairytales and two stuffed rabbits wearing berets. Clothes lay on the cement and Finn hunkered down and started putting them back in the suitcase: a skirt, a jacket, a blouse, a sweater. Size four. Pastel colors.

  "Look at this." Cori handed him a clear plastic make-up bag. "Everything in its own little compartment. I swear it looks custom made. Me? I toss everything in a Ziploc and be done with it."

  Finn took it and looked at all the female treasures: coral blush in a golden compact, lipstick in a tortoiseshell case, fawn colored eye shadow in a clear little box, and mascara in a tube that looked like it was made of obsidian. Birth control pills. Aspirin.

  A teddy made of pale blue silk was bunched near the back wheel of the car. Cori retrieved it and held it up. Finn took it from her, only to find himself embarrassed. This was sexier lingerie than he imagined for the likes of Elizabeth Barnett. It bore a label from a Paris shop.

  "He wears nice stuff, too." Finn put the lingerie away and looked at the white cotton shirt Cori was holding. It was monogrammed at the breast pocket and the cuff. She gestured with the other to a digital camera and a tablet. "Think we need to look at any of these?"

  "Not without a warrant or their permission," Finn said.

  Cori put the electronics away and latched the cases. "Where are they putting up tonight?"

  Finn indicated the rambling Spanish next door. "The Coulters' house. I don't think they'll want to stay here even when it is clear." Finn pushed himself off the ground, and dusted the knees of his pants. "Mallard talked to them, the neighbors on the other side and those directly across. No one saw anything. We'll want to revisit though…"

  Finn looked up at Cori and let his thought trail off when he saw that Fowler was almost upon them, walking like a man with purpose, tall and proud to be the cop in the suit.

  "I'm going to take off," Fowler said when he reached them. He looked at his watch. "Let's plan on meeting in my office in–"

  Before he could finish someone on the street cried out and that was followed by a clatter of equipment as the press made ready to record whatever was coming. Finn looked up. Fowler and Cori turned around. Elizabeth Barnett was running toward them, hair flying, arms out as she called:

  "Wait! Wait!"

  Cori rushed for the intercept and caught Elizabeth on the fly, wrestling with her as the woman chattered frantically and tried to break away. Cori's head tipped from one side to the other in an attempt to catch her eye, but she was having none of it. In the next moment the woman dodged Cori and hurtled toward Finn.

  She threw herself at him, grabbing his arms and pulling herself breathlessly close. In the daylight, her almost boyish figure seemed fragile to the point of brittle and her unkempt hair frizzed in a halo around her head. Fiery red rimmed her blue eyes and shot through the whites of them. Her touch was electric. Finn wanted to send Elizabeth Barnett back into the house and away from all those people who hoped she would self-destruct for the sake of a news story or neighborhood gossip. He intended to push her back to Cori, but found himself mesmerized instead.

  "Detective O'Brien. They are taking my children's things. Why are they taking my children's things?" She choked on nothing but air and words. She released Finn with one hand and pushed her hair back before latching on again. Her voice lowered to a hoarse whisper and her fingers dug into his arm. "Make them stop. Please."

  Finn's eye went to the investigators who were carrying boxes toward the van. He knew what was in those boxes and it wasn't much: bloody bedding, stuffed toys that the girls had been clutching, a blue and red guardrail from the littlest girl's bed from which they were hoping to pull some prints, a plastic bag full of matchbooks they found in the nanny's room even though there were no candles or cigarettes, a broken nail dusted with white powder that they knew was
not the nanny's. Rachel Gerber's phone, broken in the struggle, and her encrypted computer. The bloody mattresses were already in the van. The men with the boxes paused, waiting for the go ahead. Finn gave it and Elizabeth's knees buckled. Finn caught her and held her tight to him.

  "Stand if you can, Mrs. Barnett," he whispered. "Don't let them see you on your knees."

  For a split second, Finn thought that was exactly where she would end up and that she would take him with her. Then her hands tightened on his arms, her knees locked and she found the strength to do as she was told.

  "Very good then," Finn said, admiring of her strength.

  Fowler made a move to take over, but when Elizabeth Barnett kept her eyes on Finn he backed off. The detective offered a small smile to his captain, a thank you for letting him do the job as he saw fit.

  "Mrs. Barnett, we need to see who your nanny has been talking to. We need to analyze the other things for evidence so that we can piece together what happened here."

  "I know what happened," Elizabeth whispered as she pulled him closer, so close that he could see the fullness of her lips and the glint of her teeth beneath them. He watched those lips as she confessed: "It was my fault. All of it."

  "Mrs. Barnett, don't–"

  "It's true. I was going to call before we left for the airport. I knew it was wrong. It just felt wrong. Inside. Do you know what I mean? That feeling? I had the phone in my hand. I dialed. It even rang once. But it was already two in the morning here, and I was in Paris, and…" She shook her head back and forth, trying to put the crackle of guilt and the wash of memory and the turmoil of emotion into some sort of order so she could explain herself. "Sam stopped me. Sam said no one would answer. He told me we would be home soon, but I felt sick. I should have known better. I knew I had to call, but Sam said no and…and…oh my god, I didn't know about the children. I should have felt something about the children."

  "You couldn't have known," Finn assured her.

  "You're right," Elizabeth's eyes were frantic now. "I couldn't have known about the children. Still, if I had just let it ring longer I'm sure someone would have answered. Rachel wouldn't be dead and neither would my children. Does that make me a bad person that I didn't stop it?"

  "No. That is the truth. You must believe me, missus."

  Finn took her hand. He shook it once and then again. She blinked and all Finn could think was how painful that must be. She needed to close those red-rimmed eyes and stop those futile thoughts that would rub her mind raw. Finn looked toward the house. Sam Barnett was coming their way and he was walking taller. He was still in shock, still shaken, but at least he was a man coming around to help his wife and Finn was grateful for that.

  "Here's your husband. Please, Mrs. Barnett. Go with him to your friends' house."

  "No, I'll stay here." She stepped out of Finn's reach just as Sam Barnet came up behind her and took her arm.

  "Elizabeth. Come on with me, sweetheart."

  Elizabeth Barnett yanked her arm away and stood back from both men.

  "I'm staying here and there's nothing anyone can do about it. I want to be where my children are. Don't say I can't."

  Everyone's eyes went to Sam Barnett but he only saw his wife. His gaze reflected a pain that seemed chronic. Sam Barnett hung his head. Finn stepped in both to save the man further hurt and to ease the woman's mind.

  "Your children aren't in that house," he said. Elizabeth stumbled, off balance as if he had slapped her across the face. Suddenly, her eyes narrowed and she raised her chin.

  "You're right. Take anything you want. I only want to see the person who did this. Promise on the heads of your children, detective, that you will bring me the person who did this."

  "I have no children, Mrs. Barnett," Finn answered.

  "Then we have something in common, don't we?"

  In the silence that followed, her husband took her arm again. This time she didn't resist as he guided her away from their tainted house, the bloody rooms, and the bodies.

  "Let's get out of here," Finn muttered.

  Ignoring the reporters, they went to their respective cars. There was a lot to do and it was up to Finn to sort it out, grease wheels that may not want to turn for him, but first there was Fowler to deal with. Finn belted himself in as Cori took off. Finn pulled away from the curb and then rolled to a stop beside the van that was still on site. The one with the bodies was long gone and the driver of this one was peeling off his jumpsuit. Finn motioned for him.

  "Did you hear what Mrs. Barnett said in there? When you brought down the body?"

  "She said 'forgive me'. Creepy, huh?"

  Finn rolled up his window without answering. What was there to say, after all? He was a cop and everyday was creepy. Some were just creepier than others.

  CHAPTER 8

  DAY 1 – AFTERNOON

  Georgia had been married to Mort for three years, lived with him off and on for six years before that, and had two kids somewhere in between. Bottom line, Georgia knew Mort pretty good. For instance, she knew exactly what was going to happen when he had a hard day at the office – wherever the office was.

  First thing, Mort would kick the screen door 'cause it didn't fit just right'. Mort hated that it didn't fit just right, but he never fixed, it and he never called a repair guy to fix it. If Georgia tried to fix it she would break a fingernail or screw it up and that would make both of them mad. So the screen door stayed broke and that was a thorn in Mort's side for sure.

  When she heard Mort kick the door, Georgia had two options: stay put and hope he didn't come looking for her or the girls, or go find him, suck a little face, and drink with him 'till he forgot about the bad day at the office, the out of whack door, and life in general. Wait and she was liable to get the back of his hand and the girls the boot. Choose door number two and they would probably end up in the sack whether she wanted to or not.

  So Mort was kicking the screen door, making it worse and cursing at it, and Georgia was trying to decide whether it was worth getting naked with him, when she realized the little house had gone all quiet. Mort wasn't coming down the hall making more racket than a little man should. He wasn't hollering for her. She didn't hear the kitchen cabinets slamming or bottles clattering in the fridge while he looked for a beer. The only thing Georgia heard was the little squeak the backdoor made when it opened. Georgia always joked that nobody would get the drop on them because coming or going the house let you know. Mort always said that was the truth, but he said it like it wasn't a joke. He said it like nobody could get the drop on them no how.

  Anyway, the back door opened but Georgia didn't hear it close right away which was really weird. Curious, she set aside the polish and blew on her nails hoping they would dry before she had to defend herself or grab Mort for a little nooky to calm his nerves. She stepped over a pile of clothes in the doorway of the bedroom, tottered down the hall, hung a left and peered around the corner into the kitchen.

  Mort had been there all right. Georgia could smell him. Redheads had a special smell; musty like an old closet. Not that she had that much experience with redheads, but she imagined her husband wasn't much different than any of them. Now blonds she had experience with and they smelled fine. They smelled like sunshine.

  "Honey?" Georgia ventured, but Mort didn't call back. The kitchen wasn't big but the going was slow, hobbled as she was by the cotton balls between her toes, unbalanced because her hands were up and her fingers splayed. She fussed as she inched along. "Baby? Honey?"

  Finally, Georgia made it to the back door. She looked through the screen and saw Mort outside standing over the little girls who were huddled at his feet. They weren't afraid – no kid of Georgia's was ever afraid — but they were wary and that was smart. Georgia wondered what he was doing. He must be tired since he didn't leave for the office 'till after midnight and it was almost two in the afternoon now. She pushed her hair aside with the back of her hand and strained to hear what he was saying. To her surprise, Mor
t was talking all quiet and nice just like a normal person. Georgia leaned on the jamb with her shoulder and blew on her nails. She could have just cried she was so happy right then.

  Georgia decided she was having one of those talk show experiences where people shared some amazing thing that happened to them with the whole country. If she, Georgia, knew a talk show person, she would offer to go on TV and tell how they'd been through rough times but still came out okay because her husband was a good man and her kids were brave. Then she would get a great prize. Georgia's huge chest rose and fell as she dreamed about getting a car or a trip to Hawaii just because her and Mort and the girls were such a great family.

  Then she got a grip. Her old man would beat her silly if she ever showed her face on one of them programs. He didn't want nobody knowing much about him, not even her. Just as she was thinking how bad things would get if she went on television, the little girls came running into the house to show her what their daddy had brought them. They chattered and jumped and tugged at Georgia's pedal-pusher pants and almost stepped on her freshly painted toenails. But it was kind of nice having them all excited, so Georgia didn't scream at them for making noise. Instead, she looked at the pretty things. Then she started feeling sour and wondered why the little shits rated gifts like that. Then she thought of how a really good mother would act, so Georgia said 'isn't that nice' and sort of air-patted their heads.

  When they ran off, she went out to see why Mort hadn't brought her a present. She didn't get further than the porch because she could see right off that something wasn't right. Mort was sitting under the tree on the one part of grass that still looked pretty good. He had a bottle next to him, and he was staring straight off like he saw something important and sad. Georgia looked, too, but all she saw was the fence and the neighbor's Rottweiler throwing itself against the chain link like it would rip Mort's throat out given half a chance. Never having seen her husband looking like that, Georgia was at a loss. Finally, she decided to just leave well enough alone. She hobbled herself back to the bedroom, turned up the sound on the television, and listened to the squeals of her little girls coming through the paper-thin walls. She watched TV and thought about being on a talk show. Then she thought that maybe they better work on the happy family thing some more.