Life Sentences (23 page)

A spray of spit covered her face. She tried to turn away.

“You stupid bitch,” he said again, more softly. He shook his head in wonder. “How could you be so dumb?” Then his rage seemed to surge up and again he yelled, “STUPID BITCH.” He wrapped her hair around his wrist for leverage, and dragged her to the passenger side. “Stupid,”
yank
. “Bitch,”
yank
. “Stupid.”
Yank harder
.

Sobbing, Pilar crawled to lessen the pain. “Please, Tommy, no!”

“You blow this, Doc,” he said, “you won’t have a job anyway.” He shook her head. “In fact, you won’t even be a doctor no more.”

No time to scream. No one would hear. She had to struggle for herself.

“Cut it out,” he shouted. Still gripping her hair, Tommy twisted her body to the floor. “Stay still.” He shoved her face into the floor mat. “I gotta think.”

Pain charged across her scalp. A sharp piece of gravel pierced her cheek.

“Listen,” he hissed, pressing on the back of her head. “We made a deal. You can’t back out now. I’ve got too much to lose.” He pulled her face up. “Get it?” This time with his hand around her neck, he pulled her into a kneeling position, mashing her face into the gray velour seat, her body contorted and her back jammed against the dash.

She wondered if her ankles would break. She wondered if she would suffocate. She wondered if it would matter. She heard cars passing on the freeway. She felt him reach into his jacket, hear the whisper of metal against cloth.

The driver’s door was still open. She could feel the air, sense the motion of the passing cars. Didn’t anyone seewhat was happening?

No one stopped.

The steel barrel pressed to her temple felt oddly cool against the humid July heat. She tried to talk. She tried to ask why he was so angry, to tell him that only she and Chad would be the losers. She tried to remind him that he and Jane were free. She tried to tell him he could have the money. But could this be her voice? All she heard were guttural sounds, gibberish into the upholstery.

She flailed.

Tommy tightened his grip. Now Tommy was talking. Words, words. What was he saying?

Pilar couldn’t turn to see his face, read his lips. Where was Jane? Why wouldn’t she help?

Tommy was so strong. He held her with one hand.

“Mother, please help me, please.” A wild technicolor nightmare flooded Pilar’s mind – scenes from the last year, scenes from childhood — lake water, Bud, intense eyes, cell doors.

She heard a loud crack.

Her nightmare exploded in fireworks of pain.

“M
RS
. B
ROOKSTONE?
” A BLONDE, thirty-ish man dressed in a conservative dark blue suit stood in the door. He was more beautiful than handsome, perhaps Scandinavian.

Celeste hesitated before giving a cautious, “Yes.” It wasn’t usual to have strangers come to the front door late on Saturday afternoon. Most people she knew were getting ready for an evening at the club after a day of boating on Lake St. Clair.

As Celeste searched the young man’s eyes, the image of Pilar’s car flashed into her mind. It was parked at the side of the freeway. How odd. Celeste lifted her hand to her head to stop the sudden onset of pain. Fear rushed through her body. She pushed both the vision and the fear away.

“I’m Detective Patterson from the Southfield Police Department.” The man showed her an official identification and badge.

Despite the lingering head pain, Celeste’s reaction changed to a more hopeful interpretation. Had somethinghappened to her husband, or rather her soon to be ex-husband, Marcus? He was often in Southfield for meetings. Had Marcus done her a favor and she wouldn’t have to file for divorce after all? Insensitive of her, maybe, but honest.

“May I come in, Mrs. Brookstone?” he asked.

His question halted Celeste’s ambivalent thoughts. “Of course.” She led him into the library, motioned the detective to a chair and sat across from him. The image of Pilar’s car flashed before her again.

“Mrs. Brookstone, is there anyone else in the house with you?” Patterson sat on the edge of Marcus’ chair. He leaned his long, slender frame forward. His smoothly shaven face immediately turned into a series of concerned lines.

“No. I’m alone. That is, my husband is due home shortly.” Still hopeful, Celeste checked his reaction.

The detective folded his hands in his lap. He studied Celeste for several moments and finally said, “What I’m about to tell you is difficult. So, after I explain why I’m here, I’ll wait with you until your husband gets home.”

Suddenly every nerve in Celeste’s body was alive. “What are you saying?” She didn’t have to ask. “Something has happened to my daughter, Pilar. Right? Where is she? What’s happened? Let’s go!”

Celeste was out of the chair heading for the door before the detective could speak. He chased after her and circled his arm around her shoulders. Patterson escorted her to the couch and waited until she was seated. He sat beside her. “Mrs. Brookstone, I am so sorry, but there is no easy way to say this. Your daughter is dead.”

Celeste’s body stiffened, fists clenched. For several seconds she searched the detective’s face. Had she heard him correctly? His eyes said, “yes.”

“NOOOOOOOOO!” Celeste screamed and pounded the detective’s chest. Patterson remained composed. He accepted the pummeling as though it was part of his job.

Celeste’s stomach cramped, and vomit rose into her throat. She swallowed hard and sobbed, “How? When? Where?” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, not caring for once about proper etiquette.

“A police officer on routine patrol found Pilar in her car on eastbound I-696,” he responded in a practiced, controlled voice.

Celeste slumped into the cushion, her vision blurred by tears. The earlier image of Pilar’s car sent a cold rush along the length of her spine.

“She’d been shot.” He rose without looking away. “The officer found her about 11:50 A.M. The medical examiner says your daughter died about thirty minutes earlier.”

Celeste doubled over into a fetal position. “No, no, no.” Her moans sounded like a wild beast. “If only that officer …” She rocked back and forth asking, “How can this be? Who would do this?”

“We hope to have those answers shortly.” He paused. “I’ll need to ask you several questions. It won’t be easy.”

“I don’t,” Celeste took a long sniffling breath, “care. Nothing can be as hard as finding out your only child is dead.” Saying it out loud renewed the pain. She sat up, bounced her back against the cushion and hugged a pillow to her stomach. “Whatever happened to parents dying before their children?”

Patterson stood in front of Celeste as though to hold her there. “Her wallet was found with money in it,” he said. “So we don’t believe the motive was robbery.”

What was that detective saying? It was all too much. If it wasn’t robbery, then what was it?

“We’ll need your help, Mrs. Brookstone. When you’re ready, that is.”

Didn’t Pilar need her help? Hadn’t Celeste known that from their last meeting? She recognized that need too late. “When can I see her?” Celeste asked, and blew her nose.

“As soon as you’re up to it. We do need an official identification.” Patterson returned to Marcus’ chair. “I thought we should wait for Doctor Brookstone,” Patterson said as his face reddened slightly. “Your husband, that is.”

“Have you been to Pilar’s apartment?” Celeste ignored the offer to wait for Marcus.

“There’s a crime scene team going over it now.”

Sinking further into the couch, Celeste studied his face. “I’m not sure why I asked that question. What would searching her apartment have to do with a random freeway murder?” She quizzed. “You do think it was random, don’tyou?” But she already knew the answer. Pilar hadn’t been herself for several months. Something was terribly wrong. Celeste believed she failed her daughter. She hadn’t helped Pilar. Something happened at Hawk Haven, but what? That yellow slicker came to mind again.

“Mrs. Brookstone.”

Celeste raised her head. The room seemed hazy. Perhaps it was a bad dream.

“We have reason to believe whoever killed Pilar was following her,” Detective Patterson said, his tone hesitant. “We found another set of fresh tire tracks and foot prints behind your daughter’s car. Plus, there was no sign of car trouble which might have caused a passerby to stop.”

A hand of ice wrapped around Celeste’s heart and squeezed it. “Pleeease. I’ll do anything to help you find her killer.”

“I do have one question. Did you know where she was going this morning? Maybe to meet a friend?”

“No, I don’t know.” Celeste’s voice was barely audible. “She didn’t have many friends that I knew of.”

“You need to rest while we wait for your husband.”

The kindness in the detective’s voice gave Celeste strength. Why hadn’t Pilar found a young man like him? “No. I want to deal with this now,” she answered with as much force as she could muster. “I don’t want to lose one second of valuable time.” Her own strong voice amazed her. “Give me a moment to wash my face.”

“Are you sure?” The detective stood.

“I’m very sure.”

D
ETECTIVE
P
ATTERSON STEADIED
C
ELESTE
when her legs gave way. She hadn’t expected most of Pilar’s face to be missing. “It’s Pilar,” she whispered, a remnant of her earlier, piercing headache returning. “She’s wearing the blouse I gave her.”

As Celeste balanced against the table, she began to sob. She touched the blood-spattered blouse and remembered the day she gave Pilar the silk top. It had been Pilar’s twenty-seventh birthday. “We were so happy then,” she whimpered.

Celeste raised her hand to touch Pilar’s wounded, dead face. Rage boiled in her stomach like a witch’s brew. She vomited what seemed to be everything she’d eaten in the past few days. The convulsive retching propelled her forward.

Patterson caught Celeste with little concern. Once he stabilized her, Patterson ushered Celeste away from the stainless steel morgue table and the unrelenting overhead lights and led her to a frayed chair in the corridor outside the medical examiner’s office.

“I’ll get you a glass of water,” the detective said as he handed Celeste a wet towel he took from the exam room.

Silent, Celeste only had enough energy to stare at the white cinder block wall. Her hand floated into the air as though unattached. It was heavy. Then she felt the coolness of the damp cloth as the seemingly detached appendagewiped her face.

While Celeste waited for Patterson’s return, a police officer escorted Marcus into the waiting area. He rushed to Celeste. “Why didn’t you call me?” he asked. “You look terrible,” he added.

His voice echoed. His lips kept moving, but Celeste was unable to understand what he was saying.

“Celeste, answer me,” Marcus demanded; his body formed a shadow over her.

She closed her eyes and shook her head. The movement made her dizzy. “You’ll never change.” Celeste forced the words out as his greeting finally made sense. “Your daughter has been murdered and all you care about is yourself and how I look.” Her dry mouth smacked as she spoke.

Celeste opened her eyes. They stung when she focused on Marcus’ murky glare. “Don’t you want to know that Pilar’s face was blown off? Don’t you want to know someone may have been following her?” She rubbed her aching head. “Why weren’t you home? Why weren’t you ever home, Marcus?”

“This is not the time to bring that up again.” His jaw tightened with each word. He smoothed his tie and buttoned his sports jacket. “We need …”

“When is the right time?”

Celeste stood. Her legs trembled when she walked to Detective Patterson. He handed her the glass of water. Her parched mouth felt like she had been trekking acrossa desert for days. “Thank you,” she said. She gulped the entire contents of the glass and turned back to Marcus. “And WE don’t need to do anything. I must to do this on my own. You haven’t been here for us for a long time. I don’t need you now.”

“She’s my daughter, too,” he screamed.

Others in the area glanced at them. Marcus’ entire face turned as pink as the walls of Pilar’s bedroom. The workers quickly went back to their tasks. They probably had been through such outbursts before.

A brief moment of pleasure relieved Celeste’s numbness when she saw how uncomfortable Marcus seemed. “Pilar has never been your child,” she boldly announced. “Just as I have never really been your wife, only a proper escort when your business engagements dictated.” As she talked, her blood returned to an even flow. Standing up to Marcus at that moment was cathartic. Pilar would have approved.

Patterson stepped between them and introduced himself. The two men shook hands. Patterson looked from Marcus to Celeste. “I’ll need both of you to help,” he said. “Any information, even the absurd, could lead to Pilar’s killer. Clues often come to us in unexpected ways.”

“I’m sorry if I sound difficult, but …” Tears stung Celeste’s face as they streaked uncontrolled to her chin. “It’s so hard to believe. If only I was more insistent about knowing her friends and what she was doing.”

Marcus grabbed her arm and spun her around to facehim. “Did you know something was wrong?”

She yanked free. “Not really. She just seemed so edgy. She said it was due to her move and job change. And …”

“And what, Celeste?” Marcus belted. “This is no time to protect her.”

“What’s wrong with you? What are you afraid of?” By the way his mouth formed a crooked, thin seam, Celeste was certain there was more to his past than he ever shared. “Is there something you don’t want found out about you?” she asked, surprised by her own calmness. “Are you afraid Pilar had too much dirt on you? Perhaps you’re the one who needs to be protected.”

“That’s absurd,” he hissed. “You’re crazy.” Marcus engaged the detective’s attention. “I’ve nothing to hide.”

“What about that son of yours? Is he the only one?” Look at us, Celeste thought, arguing rather than comforting each other. How had she stayed with this man all these years?

Marcus stiffened. Small bubbles of perspiration formed above his upper lip. The veins in his neck grew and pulsed with angry blood. He wiped his mouth with a linen hanky Celeste had never seen before. “Don’t bring him up,” Marcus ordered in a quiet, forceful voice.