Chapter 18 - Vengeance is mine...
Frank and Joe were back in the interrogation room facing off against a miserable looking George and the ever impassive Iola. The brothers took their seats and Frank leaned forward towards George, hands folded on the table in front of him. Time to take a wild guess and see where it led him. "George, I saw your face when we wheeled Marisol's body through the dry cleaning store the night she died. You were genuinely shocked that it was her."
"No, I…" George paused and cleared her throat. "I was just surprised to see her…all over again. I—"
"Why did you take her body back to her apartment?" he interrupted, watching her face closely.
"I wanted Micah blamed for the murder," she said softly, staring down at the table.
"So where did you kill her?" Joe asked, leaning back casually in his chair.
George froze for a moment. "Right there," she said hesitantly. "I killed her there, in her apartment."
Joe raised an eyebrow. "So did you take the body to her apartment or did you kill her in the apartment?"
"I…I just misunderstood what you said. I killed her right there," George said firmly, staring at the tabletop, "in her own apartment."
Joe shook his head. "I don't think so. We've been in their apartment. Crime like that leaves a lot of blood, and I don't think Fernandez is big on housekeeping. But there weren't any traces spattered about."
"Well, then you just missed it," George said. "That was where it happened."
"Are you trying to cover up the fact that Nancy Drew killed Marisol Williams?" Frank barked sharply, slamming a hand down on the table and feeling not the least bit remorseful for the way the girl jumped.
"N…no," she stammered. "I'm not trying to cover up for anybody."
He shot a glance at the girl's attorney. Iola sat there, as still as a sculpture, but she met his eyes and seemed…what was it? Not challenging or defiant like yesterday, hesitant maybe? She swallowed and crossed her long legs the opposite way. Frank wasn't sure if that was deliberate or not, but it was a classic sign of discomfort. She was not happy with her client's responses.
He tried to think quickly. George may well have done this, but there were still dangling threads he had to tie off. "Ms. Fayne, you clearly did not act alone in committing this crime. The dog, for example, was buried with your shirt, but that dog was poisoned with sleeping pills. And that bottle of sleeping pills was seen in Ms. Drew's home."
"That was an extra bottle," George blurted out, her eyes wild. "Nancy didn't have anything to do with this, I swear! My grandmother gave her one of her partial bottles ages ago when Nancy mentioned she was having trouble sleeping."
Her partial bottles? So the letter on that prescription must be a C — Carmen Fayne. And Frank saw it all in an instant. George's fear, her insistence on taking the blame…this didn't have anything to do with Nancy. She was protecting someone closer. "Were you there when your grandmother killed Marisol?" he asked gently.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Joe jerk his head up and Iola visibly relaxed in her seat. The truth at last.
"I…I don't know what you mean," George started to say. Iola laid a hand on the girl's arm and George's face crumpled, tears welling up. She squeezed her eyes shut and slowly shook her head. "I found them when I got home from work," she whispered.
Frank let out a slow breath. Finally. "Ok, Ms. Fayne, we'd like you to write out a statement telling us exactly what happened. We're going to ask your grandmother to come in, and we'll get this all sorted out." He kept his voice soft and low. He felt sorry for the girl, but he was beyond relieved that this was almost over, and even more relieved that Nancy was in no way involved.
He and Joe left the room and Frank waved Officer Santos over, asking him to take the girl's statement. George would be charged as an accessory, but he was pretty sure Iola would work some legal magic and see that the girl only did community service at most.
Joe clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's go nab Granny," he said. Then he made a face and ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "I asked Callahan to get us a search warrant, just in case she's uncooperative. That poor kid. I think I might have done the same thing if something like this had happened to Mom or Aunt Trudie."
"I'm not sure you would go so far as covering up a murder," Frank said, pausing to nudge Joe with his shoulder. "But that empathy is one of your more lovable traits. Come on. We're probably going to need some of your charm to get Carmen Fayne to come in peacefully."
He pulled out his cell phone to Nancy's number. He still couldn't give her any details, but he could at least tell her it was almost wrapped up. A text from Nancy stared up at him, incomplete and suddenly ominous. "Joe," he said, his voice sounding strangely choked to his own ears. "We have to hurry."
They sped over to the Faynes' house, ordering the police cars behind them not to use lights or sirens in case it tipped off George's grandmother. Frank craned his neck as they approached the front door, and could just make out the edge of Nancy's little gray car in her driveway next door. She was here then, either at her house or theirs. He and Joe headed toward the Faynes' with two uniformed officers, while the others went to check out Nancy's house. He knocked sharply on the front door. "Mrs. Faye, this is Detective Frank Hardy with the police," he called. "We'd like to come in and talk to you about your granddaughter, George."
Joe put his ear up against the door to try and hear if anyone was moving around inside. After a moment he stepped back and nodded. Someone was coming towards the door. The lock turned and the door creaked open, slowly, but fully. A petite older woman in a loose patterned dress stared up at him. Her dark hair was almost completely gray, and she pushed a stray strand up into a disheveled sort of bun.
"Mrs. Fayne, we are going to need you to come into the station to give us an official statement," Frank began.
The woman's eyes narrowed slightly, but she held the door open wider. "Of course, young man. Come in, won't you? I was expecting you to be bringing George back home. Must I come to the station? Couldn't you take my statement here? I just want to be sure I'm home when George arrives, make sure there's a good meal waiting for her."
Frank felt himself stiffen. This woman had better not try to play any games... But Joe nudged him out of the way and offered the woman his most charming smile.
"Mrs. Fayne, I'm Detective Joseph Hardy. We'd be happy to come in and talk with you. You have a very lovely home. Have you lived here long? It seems like a very nice neighborhood."
Carmen looked Joe up and down skeptically and gave a sniff. "It's better than where we were before. I moved out here to give my George a fresh start. She was mixed up with the wrong crowd. Come in, then. Can I offer you tea or coffee?"
"No ma'am, thank you, though," Joe answered, following her into a tidy living room. Frank's eyes scanned the room carefully, looking for any sign that this room was the scene of Marisol's murder. She'd asked them in, but they couldn't go tramping all over the house without the warrant unless he saw clear evidence of the crime.
She gestured for the two of them to sit on the sofa, and she perched on the edge of a faded armchair, facing them across the coffee table. Joe leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped together. "Mrs. Fayne, I'm afraid George is in pretty serious trouble," he began in a sympathetic voice.
Carmen thumped a fist on the arm of the chair. "Nonsense!" she said emphatically. "My George is a good girl. You should be arresting that horrid boy, Micah Fernandez. Always a troublemaker that one."
"Marisol Williams did not die in his apartment," Frank said sternly, and Joe kicked his ankle.
"Here's the thing," Joe said, making it sound like they were letting her in on confidential police intelligence. "We don't think George is responsible for the murder. Like you said, she's a good kid. We think she just got in over her head. Maybe she thought she was helping someone out, trying to protect them."
"Why do you think that?" Carmen asked, relaxing her stiff posture ever so slightly.
As she recrossed her feet at the ankles, Frank noticed the glint of something just under the edge of the chair. He glanced over the room again quickly, trying to find something to indicate he was right to feel so apprehensive. Nancy could have inadvertently sent that text from her house, not even knowing it was incomplete. Everything here seemed very neat and tidy. This was the sort of woman who vacuumed under chairs, not just around them. As Joe went over the video evidence of George in the shirt they'd found with the bloody knife, Frank studied the carpet. There were clear vacuum lines on the section of floor between the living room and the kitchen, but the floor to his right that seemed to lead to a hallway was marred by strange patterns. He looked for a vacuum, maybe she'd been in the middle of cleaning when they'd arrived. But there wasn't one.
Joe finished speaking and Carmen let out a disdainful sniff. "You can't keep George locked away for nothing. Nancy said I could expect her by this evening—"
"When did you talk with Ms. Drew?" Frank interrupted.
"Earlier today," Carmen said promptly. "She came by for tea and to tell me about George."
Tea…Frank glanced at the piece of the something under the edge of the chair. Could that be a broken teacup? His chest tightened and he felt the blood rush in his ears. Something had happened here. Nancy was in trouble, he could feel it. But there was no blood that he could see, no scent of bleach to indicate a hurried clean up. But maybe a tea cup that had held Zolpidem? If Carmen had stabbed a woman and poisoned a dog there was nothing to stop her from trying to poison Nancy.
He stood up and unsnapped the thumb break on his holster. "I am going to tear this place apart if I have to. Where is Nancy, Mrs. Fayne?" he asked in an icy voice.
"At home I presume," the woman said, her eyes widening innocently. "I already said she came by for tea earlier."
"Mrs. Fayne—" Joe began in an exasperated voice.
"No," she said sharply, standing to her feet. "I have had just about enough of this. If the police were able to do their jobs in the first place, none of this would have happened! What are God-fearing people supposed to do in the face of such corrupted souls? That girl was bound and determined to take the slow road to hell and drag as many people with her as she could. I wasn't having that! That Nancy Drew kept pushing and threatening me, saying there would always be evidence. And so there is! Evidence that the blood of the innocent calls out from the altar! Evidence that the blood avenger shall put the murderer to death!
Her voice became more of a shriek, as Joe pulled out a pair of handcuffs and approached her. "Carmen Fayne, I'm arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Marisol Williams. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and may be used against you in a court of law, you have the right…"
Joe's voice and Carmen's vitriolic howls faded into the background as Frank headed down the hallway with the strange marks on the carpet and yanked open the first door. A closet. He moved to the second door and flung it open. Nancy lay right there on the floor beside a bed. Frank knelt beside her, feeling for a pulse as he fumbled to pull his phone from his pocket. "This is Detective Frank Hardy. I need an ambulance at 23 Maple Avenue," he snapped into the phone. "Possible overdose." He only vaguely heard dispatch respond as he gently turned Nancy on her side. Her breaths were steady, but slow and shallow. "Come on, stay with me. Fight," he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face.
After an eternity, sirens announced the arrival of the ambulance and additional officers to collect evidence. Frank was motioned out of the way as paramedics swooped in to lift Nancy onto a gurney and attach an oxygen mask. "It's probably an overdose of Zolpidem," he told them. One of them nodded as he tightened the straps to keep his patient in place and gripped the side of the stretcher, pushing it out of the room. Their shoes and wheels obliterated the earlier tracks.
"You all right?" Joe asked, clapping him on the shoulder as he returned to the living room.
"Yeah. Did she say anything?"
"Two uniforms took her in. I told them we'd question her when we got there. She just kept repeating 'The Bible says an eye for an eye.'"
Frank looked over at the crucifix by the front door, and let out a shaky breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. "It does say that," he acknowledged. "But you know as well as I do that guy also said to love your neighbor and forgive."