Chapter
11
Lindsay:
Breakdown
"Danny? Danny!"
Lindsay frantically pressed the buttons on her phone in a desperate attempt to reconnect with Danny. The receiver, slippery with tears, continuously slid from her grasp.
The call had been so unexpected, so sudden. She had just walked in the door from a fruitless day of working on the Rothbart case – no leads, no closer to finding the killer. When she heard the phone ringing, she dropped her purse and dashed to the bedroom, snatching it up just in time. Hearing Danny's voice had been jarring; like a dream where you are partially awake, with the knowledge that it isn't real. His presence, even if just on the other end of the phone, was the poultice she needed after the past few days of uncertainties and isolation.
However, hearing him also caused the tears she had been refusing to release to pour over like a broken dam. She felt as though her sanity had been swept away in its wake. Her first thoughts left her trembling with excitement and hope: did this mean he was going to be released soon? Maybe he was even on his way home already? The lack of answers was frustrating and heartbreaking. She had tried to stay composed, if not simply for Danny's sake, but her emotions had simply gotten the best of her.
She wasn't sure how long they had spoken for – less than five minutes likely. Now he had disappeared once again. I, what? Lindsay wondered. What was he about to say? Though deep down she knew it was futile, she continued shouting into the phone. "Danny! Dammit, Danny, come back! What were you about to tell me?"
"Danny," she begged. "Please."
When she listened again, she heard only the cold blare of a dial tone. She sank to the carpeted floor of her bedroom, the phone receiver still in her hand. He was gone.
Losing him all over again caused anger to pump wildly through her veins. Dropping the phone receiver, she began pounding her fists furiously against the mattress, battering it over and over until her arms became numb. She swore with every punch. Damn him for calling me. Damn him for making me love him. Damn him for hanging up. Damn him for making me break. Damn whoever took him from me.
She lowered herself slowly onto the bed, the rage having abated at last. Lindsay hated crying; she thought it was a sign of weakness and a lack of self-control. She had lost that battle when she was on the phone with Danny, and now she wept even more. She wept for herself, for Danny, for the distance between them. She never knew it was possible to cry oneself to exhaustion; tonight, she did just that.
She stopped crying when the truth settled over her, heavy as a blanket. The phone had long since ceased its beeping, and simply gone dead. Danny was gone, and she didn't know where he was, or when he would be back. Worse, she had no control over the situation.
She stayed curled up in the fetal position in the middle of her bed, and time was lost to her, until the pinkish tint of the morning sky crept through the blinds. One last tear slipped down her cheek.
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Lindsay sat at her desk on Thursday morning, flipping aimlessly through the files from her case. A cup of tepid coffee sat nearby, untouched; instead she was wishing for something infinitely stronger to numb her senses. With her puffy, red-rimmed eyes, she felt like she was wearing a sign over her head announcing the breakdown she had last night. Get over it, she berated herself, in an attempt to summon up the energy she needed to solve this crime.
Still, she sat frozen, unable to focus on the material in front of her. In fact, she barely registered it when a lab tech slipped in the room and placed a folder on her desk.
---
"Stella!" Lindsay said breathlessly as she finally caught up to her partner. "AFIS finally got a hit on the prints from our murder weapon!"
"From the look on your face, I'm guessing this is big," said Stella hopefully.
Lindsay nodded, waving a printout of a mug shot. "The prints match a Damien Price. Does that name ring a bell?"
"Price… Dori's husband?" exclaimed Stella, taking the printout and reading the information aloud. "Damien Price was released from jail one month ago, his priors include aggravated assault and possession of cocaine."
"It gets even better," added Lindsay. "At his parole hearing last month, his sister spoke on his behalf. Her name is Alice McMillian, an employee of Cecelia Truesdale."
Stella gaped for a moment, then nodded. "I remember Alice, one of the maids." She snapped her fingers. "That's the connection – that must be how Damien learned about the money hidden in the pantry."
Lindsay loved these moments, when all the puzzle pieces were finally about to snap together. "Dori Price lied about where her husband was," she said. "He may not have been at the benefit, but jail is hardly the Peace Corps."
"I think it's time we dropped in on the Prices," Stella said, pulling out her cell phone. "I'll call Flack and have us meet him there."
Lindsay make a quick stop at her desk to retrieve her jacket before they left. Her eyes settled on a small framed photo which she used as a paperweight. It was a picture of herself with Danny, taken two months prior when they went hiking in the Catskills. It had been a warm summer afternoon, and Lindsay had asked a passerby to snap their photo. We were so happy, she thought, then corrected herself. Are happy. Will be happy again. As she went to catch up with Stella, she tried to emblazon that sweet moment in her mind.
---
Flack hammered on the front door of the Price home. Lindsay stood just behind him. Dori had lied to her face; that deceit combined with her already unstable emotions made her ready for battle. A man opened the door – tall, Lindsay noted as he towered over her. Certainly tall enough to have hit Alan Rothbart over the head with a heavy can.
"Damien Price?" Flack barked.
"Yes?" the man looked at them blankly.
Dori's pale face appeared just beyond her husband's shoulder. "Let them in, Honey," she said. "They're here about that chef who was killed."
They entered the meager ranch-style house, which Lindsay noted had an odd odor somewhere between vinegar and potpourri. A gray tabby cat was stretched on the windowsill, basking in the morning sun.
Dori glanced at them nervously. "I told you, we don't know anything," she said.
Stella nodded. "Sure," she said sarcastically. "Then can you explain how the fingerprints we found on the murder weapon match the fingerprints of your husband."
Lindsay dove in. "Or why you told us your husband was in the Peace Corps, when he was really in prison?"
Damien swerved to look at his wife. "The Peace Corps?" he asked, stunned.
Dori balked for a moment, like a wild animal caught in a vehicle's headlights. Then she began speaking in a rush. "I just didn't want to tell you he was in jail," she argued. "I was afraid you'd try to pin it on him." She shrugged, as if it was the most logical explanation possible.
Lindsay noticed a look pass between the husband and wife; an unspoken pact. Go with it, the look said, agree with my lie. As she studied them further, her eyes settled on a red stain on Damien's beige jacket. It was not dark enough to be blood, but the perfect color and consistency for… tomato sauce.
"You did kill Alan Rothbart," Lindsay said suddenly to Damien. She pointed one finger at the stain. His mouth opened, but no response came out.
Stella grabbed a framed photo off of a shelf, and waved it in Damien's face. "Your sister worked for Mrs. Truesdale," she snapped. "She must have let it slip that there was ten thousand dollars hidden between pages 123 and 124 of Everyday Seafood Delights."
"Oh, God," murmured Damien. He was cornered. Dori began to weep.
Lindsay glanced at the photograph Stella had replaced. Dori and her sister-in-law were in formal dress at the Truesdale home – probably the Humane Society benefit. In the background she could see the frail figure of Mrs. Truesdale, clutching on of her faithful four-legged companions.
Suddenly, Lindsay turned to look at Dori's hand. The bite.
"You were there," she said sharply to her. "You knew."
"I think we have enough for an arrest, folks," Flack announced jovially, gesturing to several uniformed officers nearby. "Actually, two arrests." He turned to Lindsay and Stella. "We'll take them back the station, and I'll get Damien's statement." Then he added to Stella, "You want to work on the Missus, see if she knows anything?"
"I'll do it," volunteered Lindsay. It was all making sense to her now – Dori claiming her husband was away, the bite mark on her hand. Lindsay's current state of mind - the pain and loss, the brief conversation with Danny fresh in her mind - allowed her to be more perceptive to this woman's motivation. She watched as Dori was lead from the house in handcuffs. The woman kept swinging her head around in an attempt to make eye contact with her husband one last time.
"She covered for her husband," Lindsay said softly, "and I think I know why."
