All Fall Down

“What’s more important than love, Stan? Than constancy? He’s been with me since the beginning, a change now would confuse him. Besides, all his friends from preschool—”

“Kids adjust.”

He said it so casually, so carelessly. This was Casey’s life they were talking about. His feelings. That the man could blow them off so easily made her blood boil. “You son-of-a-bitch,” she whispered, voice shaking. “All you care about is yourself.”

“That’s your opinion.” “I won’t let you do this.” “You can’t stop me.” “Mom?”

She looked over to find Casey in the doorway, eyes wide with alarm. The phone must have awakened him—if he’d ever fallen asleep. She pulled herself together and smiled reassuringly at him. “I’ll be off in just a second, honey. Crawl back into bed and I’ll come snuggle with you. Okay?”

Casey hesitated a moment, then did as she asked. She returned her attention to her ex-husband. “It’s inappropriate for us to have this conversation right now. I’ll have to get back to you.”

“This isn’t going to go away, Melanie. I intend to sue you for custody of our son. And I intend to win.”

7

The conference room in the Law Enforcement Center was too hot. The personalities around the long, oval table too strong. Each person accustomed to having their way. Melanie moved her gaze from one face to another. Charlotte’s mayor, Ed Pinkston, and Chief Lyons of the CMPD, her own chief, the district attorney. Representatives from all their offices, as well as the SBI—the State Bureau of Investigation. Connor Parks. A man with him, also FBI, she guessed. Whistlestop’s mayor was not in attendance, a fact Melanie found curious. Or ominous, she amended, shifting her gaze to her chief’s set face.

They had been called together that morning because the daughter of Charlotte’s most prominent citizen had been dead a week now and that citizen was demanding answers. So was the press.

And they were no closer to an answer than they had been the day after her murder.

There would be no glad-handing here today. No give-and-take, no backslapping and mutual support. Instead, a head or two might roll—Melanie’s included. Even the CMPD guys looked apprehensive.

The Charlotte mayor stood to bring the meeting to order. Before he could, the conference-room door opened. Cleve Andersen and another man walked through. An uncomfortable hush fell over the room.

“Sorry I’m late,” Andersen said briskly, moving to the head of the table, taking a place beside Mayor Pinkston.

The mayor cleared his throat. “Cleve, we didn’t expect—”

“I thought it best,” the man interrupted. “The decisions made here today affect me. My family.” He smiled, the curving of his lips automatic, the consummate player doing his thing. “As you know, I’m not one to let others lead.”

He indicated the man who had entered with him. “My attorney, Bob Braxton. Now—” he settled into his seat and turned his gaze to the room’s other occupants “—shall we begin?”

Mayor Pinkston looked as helpless as a fish flopping on a dock, hook still embedded in its mouth. Clearly, the politician didn’t have the guts to oppose the more powerful man.

Apparently, Connor Parks did. “Excuse me,” he said, standing, facing the businessman. “With all due respect, Mr. Andersen, you don’t belong here.”

The room fell quiet. All eyes focused on Andersen. He stood stiffly, his chiseled features tight with restraint. Or dislike. “Young man, my daughter is the topic of this meeting.”

“Exactly the reason you shouldn’t be here. We don’t have the time to tiptoe around your feelings. Go home to your grieving family, Mr. Andersen. That’s where you belong. It’s where you can do some good.”

An ugly flush climbed up Cleve Andersen’s pale face. Melanie held her breath. Parks had verbalized what each person at the table had certainly been thinking. Although Melanie applauded his courage, she wondered at his sanity. He hadn’t exactly soft-pedaled his opinion or couched it in deferential terms.

“I don’t recognize you,” Andersen said. “What’s your name?”

“Agent Connor Parks, FBI.”

“Well, then, Agent Parks, let me tell you something. I didn’t get where I am today by sitting on the sidelines and waiting for others to make things happen. I take charge. I make things happen.”

“Again, with all due respect, this isn’t big business. This is law enforcement. Something you know nothing about. I’m afraid this time you’re going to have to take that seat on the sidelines. Please, let us do our jobs.”

“Cleve,” the mayor said gently, laying a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Agent Parks is right. No father should hear the things we must discuss in this room today. It would be better if you left.”

The man swayed slightly on his feet. His mask of confidence and determination slipped, giving all a glimpse of the man underneath, one in great pain, one hanging on by an emotional thread.

Andersen looked at Ed Pinkston. “I’ve already endured the worst a father could,” he said softly, the slightest quaver in his voice. “I was told my daughter was dead. That she had been murdered.”

He moved his gaze around the table, from one face to the next, stopping, finally, on Connor Parks’s. “I want her killer caught. I want justice. And I’ll have it, no matter the cost. Is that understood?”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned to his attorney. “Bob, I’ll trust you to handle this from here.”

Like the room’s other occupants, Melanie watched the man stride toward the exit. She ached for him, for his pain. She understood his motive for coming today—sitting back and waiting would be hell on earth for a take-charge man like Andersen.

When the door clicked shut behind him, several moments of awkward silence ensued. Then the mayor cleared his throat and called the meeting back to order. After chastising Parks for the tone with which he had addressed the victim’s father, he opened the floor to the two chiefs of police. They shared every step of the investigation so far—who had been interviewed, what had been gleaned from those interviews—and they assured the politicians no stone was being left unturned.

“I don’t want to hear about turning over stones,” Pinkston snapped. “I want to hear about a suspect. I want to hear you tell me you’re going to catch this sick bastard and I want you to tell me how you’re going to do it.”

Chief Lyons of the CMPD turned to Pete Harrison, his lead investigator. “Harrison?”

The man nodded. “We have a suspect. Apparently, the night Joli was murdered she spent the early part of the evening in a club with friends. There was a guy there who was hitting on her most of the night. Really coming on strong. She wasn’t interested and humiliated him in front of a group of people. Called him loser and told him to crawl back under whatever rock he’d emerged from.

“He blew his top. Told her he’d make her sorry and stormed off. A witness, one of the club’s patrons, says she saw the guy in the parking lot later that night, around the time Joli left. Unfortunately, nobody knew who he was. He’d never been in that club before, paid with cash. And nobody’s seen him since.”

Andersen’s attorney made a sound of disbelief. “You’re saying you can’t find this guy?”

“Haven’t found him yet,” Harrison corrected. “We will, trust me. We’ve got descriptions of him with every bartender in Mecklenburg County. He’ll resurface.”

“And when he does,” Harrison’s partner, Roger Stemmons, added, “we’ll be there.”

“I hate to rain on anyone’s parade, but I don’t think we should pin our hopes on this guy,” Agent Parks offered. “He sounds like a disorganized inadequate, same as our UNSUB, but the—”

“Excuse me,” Mayor Pinkston interrupted. “Our what?”

“Unknown subject. As I was saying, the other descriptions we have of him and of his behavior don’t fit the profile.”

For the second time that morning, all attention focused on Connor Parks. “Profile?” the mayor asked.

“Mumbo jumbo,” Stemmons muttered, tossing his pencil onto the table.

“A psychological portrait of a killer,” Connor told the mayor. “We create this portrait by comparing what we know about criminal behavior to the details of a particular crime scene. They’re quite accurate.”

Connor looked at Stemmons, his expression bland. “Actually, there’s nothing metaphysical or mystical about profiling. Our conclusions are based on data collected from actual crimes and hundreds of hours of interviews with known serial killers and rapists.”

Stemmons scowled. The mayor settled more comfortably in his chair. “So, tell us about this UNSUB, Agent Parks. What kind of man are we dealing with here?”

“He’s a white male,” Connor began. “Twenty-five to thirty-five years of age. He’s handsome and in good shape. He works out, most probably at a health club.

“He’s a professional man, doctor, lawyer, accountant,” he went on. “If not successful, he has the trappings of success—the clothes, the car. A BMW is my guess. But one of the smaller ones, a 300 series, maybe. A few years old.”