As usual, big hugs to all my faithful reviewers--especially myril, Alamo girl, and Snow Ivy for their detailed accounts. Love getting your opinions!
Chapter 9
Aaron Bailey was still home, and had been all day by the looks of him, by the time they pulled up in front of his driveway later that afternoon. The scanty winter sun had just hidden behind the facade, making his narrow front porch dimmer and even more uninviting.
"Oh—you again," was the warm welcome, pronounced in a dead, uninterested monotone. "I figured you'd come back. So what have you found?"
"We had a little talk with your son, Mr. Bailey," announced Lilly nonchalantly. "And he had some pretty interesting stuff to tell."
Something came across Aaron Bailey's face. Lilly had anticipated some sort of reaction—surprise, anger, apprehension maybe. Not this hopeful blaze. Because hopeful it was—even if his voice was brusque as ever as he droned, "So you found him, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Where?"
"Homeless shelter." Vera's features became inscrutable with a look only Lilly knew how to interpret. It was his 'cross-examination' stance. Total emptiness—give nothing away, let the suspect do the talking. "Kid didn't look well, Bailey. Bony and half-dressed. Stoned up to his armpits. And he sure didn't have much of a good word to put in for you."
Aaron Bailey scowled. "No surprise. That little punk always had it in for me. I never could do right by him—no matter how hard I tried. He was a bad seed, just like his mother."
Lilly wondered if she was the only one who caught the plaintive note in the last part of this sentence. That's right, Aaron, she thought. Pretend you don't like the kid. Keep him at arm's length and maybe his attitude won't hurt so damn much.
She decided the point-blank approach was as good as any. "He claims you killed your wife. Says he saw you washing a knife in the sink, the day following her disappearance. A knife covered in blood. So what do you have to say for yourself?"
Aaron Bailey stiffened, his eyes swirling so dark it was impossible to know what was going through his mind. For a moment Lilly backed off, bracing herself for an attack. There certainly seemed to be some violent sort of emotion ripping through his insides. But then, as abruptly as it had come, it was gone, and with it came a derisive chuckle.
"I don't need to say anything. These will speak for me." Dragging his hands out of his pockets, he pulled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt to reveal multiple scars along both forearms, some thick, some thin—long horizontal slashes, all the way up to his elbows. "The blood on that knife wasn't her blood. It was mine."
Lilly and Vera blinked. Not much they could say to that, was there.
"Do you still do this… self-mutilating?" Lilly ventured.
Aaron Bailey shrugged. "Occasionally. When life gets too much for me."
"When did you start?"
"That night was the first time I did it. Had no idea Jason was looking. He was supposed to be in bed, the little brat. My wife was gone and I thought something terrible had happened to her. I was never a whole person before her—never been whole since. I couldn't cope without her. And then there were these two snot-nosed kids to raise…"
"Were you trying to commit suicide?" Vera interjected.
"Nah. Just… wanted to get rid of the pain. Physical pain beats emotional any day of the week. Giving yourself a nice deep cut is as good for getting your mind off your troubles as taking a long stiff drink."
I don't doubt it, Lilly contemplated wryly. "Tell us more about the day she left."
"It was a Friday. I came home from work and the kids were by themselves. My girl screeching in her crib. That never happened. No note—nothing. I figured maybe she'd gone to the grocery store or something. So I waited. But she never came back."
"How long was it before you called the police?"
"When she still hadn't come home at midnight, I called 911, but they gave me the whole 24 hours crap. So I waited the 24 hours and filed a missing person's report. Then I came home, put the kids to bed, went into the kitchen, grabbed a knife and got down to business."
"Anyone who can back you up on that?"
"Work records." Once again a strange air came over him. "It's funny," he mused. "All these years I've been wondering what I could have done to make my son hate me so much. And here he was thinking I killed his mother."
"So did you?" grilled Vera.
"No. But I wish I had. I loved Erica. I hate her now, but I loved her then. She betrayed me and she betrayed the kids—she deserves to be dead. I hope she suffered."
Gemma Whitney acknowledged them the minute they walked into the clinic, the bright smile bestowed on them marred by a slightly troubled look. "Dr. Swanson's really busy today—I'll try to make a slot for you. Just a second."
It was crowded, all right. Far more than the first time they'd come around. Everywhere Scotty directed his gaze, it fell on women in various stages of pregnancy—some looking big enough to topple over where they stood. His attention followed Gemma's heels as they clicked competently down the hall toward the culprit's office.
"Scotty, I gotta ask you something." Jeffries' voice held a warning, startling him out of his reverie.
"What's that?"
"It's about you and Lil."
"Oh." Should've guessed, he reflected dourly, turning away"I don't wanna talk about it."
Jeffries didn't let him. "I know you asked Stillman to separate the both of you. I just wanna know where you stand."
Scotty sighed, suppressing the tight awkward half-smile that crawled to his lips. Damn it, Will! What part of I don't wanna talk about it' do you not understand? "I just don't wanna have anything more to do with her," he muttered resignedly. "She wouldn't let off and I got sick of trying to deal with it. I got enough things on my mind, you know? My patience is gone."
Jeffries nodded, and appeared about to put in some two cents of his own when Gemma came back, her brow wrinkled. "Dr. Swanson will see you now."
"Ah, the good detectives," crooned Swanson sardonically as they stepped into his office. His expression lit up somewhat on seeing Scotty, only to darken again as it settled on Jeffries. "What a pleasant surprise. You seem to have switched partners, however. Your delectable sidekick is nowhere to be seen."
Jeffries did a double take. Delectable sidekick? Was this guy for real? He could just envision Lilly punching his lights out.
Scotty ignored him. "Enough with the chit-chat, Greg. We know all about your little games."
Dr. Swanson folded his hands, bored. "And what games might you be referring to?"
"We just met an old friend of yours, one who goes by the name of Aura Kane. She ring any bells to you?"
"Perhaps. So?"
"So she lived across the street from the house the body was found in. And, curiously enough, you lived right across the street from her. 1453 Lincoln Drive. Right next door to the burial site. Weird, ain't it?"
"Indeed. What an amazing coincidence."
"She was also kind enough to mention you had a girlfriend with you—one in, I quote, 'childbearing years'. And that you moved away in spring 2003," was Jeffries' contribution.
"This is all very fascinating," Swanson interposed. "But what's it have to do with me? And, I remind you, I do have patients waiting."
"You knock up your girlfriend, Greg?"
"I don't know, detective. You knock up yours?" came the rejoinder, innocently put.
Shit, Jeffries swore inwardly. This is gonna get ugly.
"Cut the crap, Swanson," Scotty's body, taut enough to explode, remained a prudent 3 feet away from Swanson, saving Jeffries the trouble of having to restrain him. The kid was getting more controlled, that was for sure. "You really expect us to believe you had nothing to do with it—living right next to where the body was found, with a possibly pregnant girlfriend, and you the only one who knew these kids existed?"
Cool as a cucumber, Dr. Swanson demurred, "That's just mindless speculation. It would never stand up in a court of law and you know it. Circumstantial evidence. No proof whatsoever."
"Well, guess what?" Scotty spat. "We can get proof. All we need is some hair. And a get-together with your former sweetheart, Lisa Underwood."
"Be my guest," Dr. Swanson drawled. "I got nothing to hide."
"No matches," Stillman stated somberly, letting the disappointing DNA reports fall back onto his desk. This case was a goddamn nightmare—he was beginning to fear they'd never be able to crack it. It was like one of those crazy little kid mazes they had as placemats in fast-food places—all roads leading nowhere.
"What about Swanson's?" Scotty pressed on, ever hopeful. "That one can't possibly be ready yet."
"Lab's still on it, but the blood group's discordant. No way he's the father."
"Fuck damn," burst out Vera, and though Stillman glowered his disapproval, deep down he felt the same way.
Moving on to the next point…
"What about this girlfriend of his—Lisa Underwood?"
"We still haven't located her, John," Jeffries answered from his computer. "Seems to have dropped off the face of the earth. Last we have on her, she was working at some elementary school in east Philly. No current address listed."
"Just because Swanson's not the father doesn't mean he's not involved," Stillman pondered aloud, pacing. "He's still our main suspect. Hope you instructed him about not skipping town. Bring him in early tomorrow morning for a polygraph. Meanwhile let's get a warrant to search his house and office." Turning to Lilly and Vera, "any news on Erica Bailey?"
"Just a whole bunch of dead ends," gloomily replied Lilly. "Husband says she ran away, son says the father did it, father denies it. Neither one of them wrote the second half of the letter, according to handwriting analysis. CSU couldn't find any prints on it or any trace of blood on Aaron Bailey's kitchen knives. Oh—and his alibi checks out. But there are four hours he's unaccounted for, supposedly the time he waited for Erica to come home."
"The son could confirm or deny that," Vera said. "But we're not gonna be running into him anytime soon."
Shaking his head, Stillman heaved a sigh. "Well, at least we know for sure there was another man involved. All right, enough. Go home, get some sleep, all of you. We're gonna need it. Looks like we're not getting rid of this one so easily."
In the dead of night, Scotty was jolted out of sound sleep by the ear-splitting clamor of his phone ringing. At first he refused to believe it was true, tried to roll around and hide under the covers to block out the noise. But the shrilling persisted, ruthlessly drilling into his brain till he was forced to flail out in the shadows and grab the receiver.
"Valens," he slurred dazedly.
"Leave the case," growled the warped metallic twang of a voice distorter. "I know who you are. I've been watching you. Leave the case you're working on or there'll be hell to pay."
"Wha—?" Scotty stammered, trying to shake off his deep drowsiness.
"I'm not kidding. Don't you think I know about that blonde cunt you're going around with? Nice piece of ass you got there, wouldn't mind a piece of it myself."
"Wait a minute. Who the hell are you?" And how the fuck does he know about Christina? Scotty wondered in panic, the last wisps of sleep still clinging to his mind.
"Back off the case, I'm telling you. Tell that blonde bitch to back off. Or I'll make her get what she deserves."
Not Chris, he realized suddenly, his stomach an icy bottomless pit of dread.
Lilly. He's talking about Lilly.
"I could be standing in her house right now. Who'd think that cocky bitch would look so nice and innocent while she's sleeping? I could just reach down and—"
The phone went dead in Scotty's hand.
"Wait!" he commanded, a second too late. Fuck! Fuck! he thought, slamming the phone down on his bed, his heart beating so loud it threatened to leap out of his chest. Now what do I do?
Call Lilly. Call her now!
His fingers began punching out the numbers.
But what if it's a joke? a sinister resentful little demon reminded him. You wanna get laughed at again, Valens? Cops got threatened every day of the week; this wasn't news. Nothing was going to happen—it was Lilly, for God's sake. Not some helpless simpering female. She professed she didn't need any friends, she could take care of herself—well, let her. She'd finally get the chance to prove herself.
Not if she's asleep with a maniac's standing over her bed, she can't—reality kicked in, crashing into his gut with the weight of a battering ram.
Lilly might be the toughest, meanest, most kick-ass woman in the world while she was awake—but asleep, she didn't have a chance. And this lunatic could really hurt her. Wasn't that above all petty fights and other considerations?
He went for the phone again.
But he dialed Stillman's number.