CHAPTER 31

MICHELLE STARED at her mother's body. The autopsy was complete and while there were some toxicology and other test results still pending, the conclusion was that Sally Maxwell had not died from natural causes. She had died from a blow to the head.

Michelle had spoken directly to the county medical examiner. Her brother being a sergeant on the police force had allowed access where otherwise there would have been none. The family of a homicide victim traditionally was only given words of official comfort and time alone with their dead, not facts. The reason for this was simple if disquieting: Family members often murdered each other.

The ME had been terse but unmistakable. "Your mother didn't fall down and hit her head. The wound was too deep. The smooth cement floor couldn't have done it, and there was no trace on the car handle or the stair railing. And those edges didn't match up with the wound shape in any case."

"What exactly was the wound shape?"

"I shouldn't be talking to you about this, you know," he said crossly.

"Please, it was my mom. Any help you can give me that doesn't break any rules you can't live without would be appreciated." This simple plea seemed to strike a chord with the man.

"It was an unusual shape. About ten centimeters long and a little over one centimeter wide. If I had to guess, it was metal. But it had an unusual line to it. Very odd footprint."

"So someone definitely killed her?"

The ME had looked down his progressive lenses at Michelle. "I've been doing this for thirty years and I have yet to see someone kill themselves with a blunt instrument strike to the head and then, after death, hide the weapon so well the police couldn't find it."

Her mother's body had been released by the ME's office and sent to the local funeral home. Michelle had come here to see her mother before the woman's remains were prepared for viewing. There was a sheet draped over her up to her neck, thankfully covering up the Y-incision the medical examiner had sawn into her.

None of Michelle's brothers had wanted to accompany her here. As police officers they all knew what a dead body looked like after an autopsy and particularly forty-eight hours after death. The phrase about "beauty being only skin deep" had never seemed more apt. No, her "tough" brothers would wait until after the preservation agent had been pumped into their mother's body, her hair done, her face caked with makeup, her clothes nicely arranged to obscure the assault of the postmortem, and her body placed in the three-thousand-dollar casket for all to see.

Michelle did not want to remember her mother this way, but she had to come here. She had to see the brutal effects that the work of someone had done on the woman who over three decades ago had given birth to her. She was tempted to angle her mother's head around, to look at the wound site for herself, but she resisted this impulse. It would be disrespectful, and if the ME couldn't figure out the weapon used there was little hope that Michelle could.

She imagined her mother's last moments. Had she seen her killer? Had she known him or her? Did she know the reason she'd been struck down? Had she felt any pain?

And the last and most crushing thought of all.

Had her father killed her mother?

She took her mom's hand and stroked it. She said things to the dead woman that she had never managed to say while Sally had been alive. It left Michelle feeling emptier than before. And lately her depressions had often run cavern-deep.

Five minutes later she was out in the fresh air, sucking in as much oxygen as she could. The drive home was lost in memories of her mother. When she pulled into the driveway of their house, Michelle just sat there for a bit trying to compose herself.

Her father had made dinner. Michelle sat down to eat with him. Her brothers had gone out together to do some bonding, she supposed, while also giving their kid sister time alone with the old man.

"Good soup," she said.

Frank spooned a bit of chicken and broth into his mouth. "Made it from scratch. I've been doing more and more of the cooking over the years." He added with a bit of resentment, "You wouldn't know that, of course."

She leaned back, broke off a bit of a roll, and chewed it slowly, thinking of how to respond to this. On one level there was no response. She hadn't been around. She wouldn't have known about that. On another level she wondered why he would be throwing a guilt trip on her right now.

"Mom kept busy too?"

"She had her friends. Your mother was always more social than me. I guess it was the job. Had to keep a certain distance. She never had that impediment."

And bitterness?

"Never knew when one of your buddies might break the law?" Even as she was saying the words, Michelle wished she had hauled them back into her mouth before they'd gained traction outside her head.

He took a long moment before answering. "Something like that."

"Anybody in particular? Friends, I mean?"

"Girlfriends," he said. "Rhonda, Nancy, Emily, Donna."

"So what'd they do?"

"Played cards. Shopped. Lots of golf. Lunch. Gossip. The things retired ladies do."

"You never joined them?"

"On occasion I did. But it was more a girl's thing."

"Who was she going to see that night?"

Again, he took another long moment to answer. If she were a gambler, Michelle would've wagered her father was about to tell her a lie.

"Donna, at least I think. Dinner, I believe she said. I can't be sure. Just said it in passing."

"Donna have a last name?"

This time there was no long moment. "Why?" he shot back.

"Why what?"

"Why do you want to know Donna's last name?"

"Well, has anyone called her and told her that the reason Mom didn't make it was because she was dead?"

"I don't care for your tone, little girl."

"Dad, I haven't been a little girl for over twenty years."

He put down his spoon. "I called her. Okay? It's not that big of a town anyway. She'd already heard."

"So it was Donna that Mom was going to see?"

For an instant he looked confused, unsure of himself. "What? Yes, I think it was."

Michelle felt a wrenching pain in her chest. She rose, made a mindless excuse, and left the house. Outside, she phoned the only person she had ever allowed herself to really trust.

Sean King had just landed at Washington Dulles.

"I need you," she said, after filling him in on what had happened.

Sean went in search of a flight to Nashville.

CHAPTER 32

YOU COULD'VE KILLED YOURSELF," snapped Quarry as he sat across from Willa back in her "cell."

"I'm a prisoner here and prisoners have to try and escape," she said right back to him. "It's their job. Like everybody knows that."

Quarry drummed his long, thick fingers on the tabletop. He'd confiscated Willa's lock-picking tools and removed all the canned food too. He'd also had Daryl and Carlos install additional security on the door.

"Who's Diane?" Willa asked.

"A lady," Quarry said gruffly.

"That I already know. Why is she here?"

"None of your business."

He rose to leave.

"Thank you, by the way."

Quarry turned looking surprised. "For what?"

"You saved my life. But for you, I'd be at the bottom of that mountain."

"You're welcome. But don't try anything like that again."

"Can I see Diane again?"

"Maybe."

"When?"

"I don't know."

"Why don't you know? It's a pretty simple request."

"Why do you ask so many questions when I'm not answering any of them?" Quarry said, evidently both frustrated and intrigued by the girl's tenacity.

"Because I keep hoping that sometime you will start answering them," she said brightly.