Dying Breath by Heather Graham
“We haven’t seen Hank yet. He’s late. We did see Aldridge, and, after we spoke with him, we have pretty much a similar working theory,” Griffin told her.
“And then there is this,” Vickie said. “Alex wondered if there might not be an illegitimate child of Bertram Aldridge out there somewhere.”
“I never heard of him having children, but if he had a kid when he was young and no one admitted to it...anything’s possible. I’ll get people looking into it, though that’s a task that could take a lot of investigators a very long time.”
“I know.”
“But your new friend did have a good idea. We’ll get on it. And you—what are you doing now?”
“I’m going to head out to the aquarium. Think my cop will mind if I walk?”
“I think you’re talking four blocks, maybe five,” Griffin said.
She laughed softly.
“I doubt he’ll mind,” Griffin told her. “Keep in touch. I don’t like it that we haven’t heard from Hank.”
“Want me to call Roxanne?” Vickie asked.
“We called her. No response.”
“I thought a cop was watching her place. Because of Hank.”
“Yep. He says no one has come or gone. He told me he knocked, but just lightly. She hasn’t done anything wrong—he’s just there to protect her and he thought she might be sleeping.”
“She might have been up all night, worried about not trusting him—or that he could be a killer.”
“There was a shift change, but one officer stayed until the other was at his post. Unless she went through a window, she’s in there, just not answering anyone. I’m going to give her a few more minutes, and then we can start getting worried.”
“I’ll try her. Maybe she’ll answer me.”
“All right. Well, we’re at the station waiting—we’ve got feelers out, trying to search the black market for old gold. And I’ve got blueprints here of the building where the Aldridge family once had a house. Looking for stash sites. Luckily, I have a task force of computer geniuses here, too.”
“They might have moved the money.”
“I don’t know—they might not want to be caught with it. This woman is moving around the city on an assumed name. She doesn’t exist. We’re checking nationwide records, too, trying to find out if she might be using the identity of someone who died, or if she’s just playing it as she goes. I’m going to get back to work. Keep in touch. Please, stay in crowds. Be safe.”
“Don’t worry, I know Officer Hornsby will protect me, even if a beluga whale jumps out of the water.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously—I’ll be in public, well-populated places. I’ll be in a throng of adolescents soon, in a busy tourist spot. I’m going to watch for Officer Hornsby at every turn. And I’ll keep in touch,” Vickie promised.
He hesitated on the line, thinking he should say something. Something more. Something about his feelings for her.
“Hey, don’t forget we’re going to the gun range later.”
“I’m ready!” she assured him. “I’ll call Roxanne and get back to you,” she said. “Griffin, I am worried.”
“If you don’t get an answer, the cop will go right in.”
He hung up and stared at the mountain of papers and architectural plans before him.
Hank had promised to show up. He wasn’t answering his phone, he wasn’t at his residence and he hadn’t gone to Roxanne’s apartment. They’d called his work; he hadn’t reported in since leaving Framingham.
His fingers itched as he held his cell phone. He was ready to break down the door to Roxanne’s if she didn’t respond to someone soon.
His phone rang. Vickie.
“Did she answer you?”
“Yep, she says she’s fine, and she hasn’t heard from Hank.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Sure. See you soon?”
“I’ll come to the aquarium if I can,” he promised.
He hung up still feeling that something wasn’t right.
He stood and walked into the conference room where Jackson and Detective Barnes were also going through records, papers and tip-line info.
“We need an APB out on Hank Fremont. I don’t like this,” he said.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Jackson said.
Barnes nodded. “Consider it done,” he said, rising.
“And,” Griffin added, “Vickie reached Roxanne—but I don’t like it. We need to get into her apartment.”
Again, Barnes nodded. “Consider it done,” he said.
Barnes left the room. “Jackson, you can deal with Hank when he comes in, right? I’m going to head to the aquarium. I don’t like Vickie being alone.”
Jackson didn’t try to tell him Vickie wasn’t alone, or that the BPD officers were among the best in the country and she had one guarding her. Sometimes, the person needed for a particular task was you, yourself.
“I can handle Hank just fine—assuming we find him,” Jackson said. “Go, watch over Vickie.”
“Thanks,” Griffin said.
And he left the station, heading for aquarium.
He was only halfway there in a mass of Boston traffic when his phone rang. It was Jackson.
“They broke Roxanne’s door because she wasn’t responding. She wasn’t there.”
“How could she not be there?”
“She actually went out a window.”
“Okay. I’m getting to Vickie, as fast as I can.”
* * *
Vickie’s phone rang right after she hung up from Griffin.
It was Roxanne.
“Hey, you okay?” Vickie asked her.
“Yes. Are you headed for the aquarium? You have your kids there today?” she asked. “I’m on my way to join you.”
“Why aren’t you at your apartment? You should be with your protective detail!”
“I wasn’t sure they were really protecting me. I—I’m scared. I need a friend. I’d feel better with you.”
“Roxanne, I’m really angry with you! That was crazy—you had people watching you!”
“I need you—I need a friend!”
“All right, all right, but you be careful, and you get with me now, okay?”
“Yes. Right away.”
“Where are you now?”
“Faneuil Hall area. I’ll head back to our favorite coffee shop.”
“Great—I will be there as quickly as possible and I’ll find you,” Vickie said and hung up.
Her phone rang again almost immediately. She thought it was Roxanne, calling back, maybe with a change of heart. If not Roxanne, Griffin.
If not Griffin, her mother.
But it was none of them. The voice on the other end of the line was young and hushed; scared, Vickie thought.
“Miss Preston, it’s Cheryl. Your Grown Ups student, Cheryl Taylor.”
“Hey. What’s wrong? Are you not going to make the aquarium today?”
“I don’t know. I really need to talk to you. Please, can we meet somewhere?”
“Where are you now? I was on my way to the aquarium, but I’m pretty early. I’m by Faneuil Hall.”
“I’m in the cemetery.”
“Cemetery?”
“Yes, people here, but it’s quiet, I can be alone...there’s a cop following you, right? Or that handsome Fed. I mean, you’re okay, right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Who are you afraid of?”
“I don’t know... I’m hanging around here, at the Granary.”
“It will take me a few minutes. But yes, I have a cop. And yes, I’ll come to you. Stay put.”
She turned and waved to Justin Hornsby—letting him know that she was chang
“Poor kid is probably in trouble. Maybe the wrong guy,” Roxanne said. “I’ll head for the Granary instead of the cemetery.”
“I don’t know who to worry about more.”
“I’ll be okay. I promise. You get close to me. Please. Then I’ll hover and you can nod when you see me, let me know if you need time with her alone, or if maybe I can help.”
“All right. Stay safe!”
The aquarium was actually a much shorter walk.
She thought about Cheryl Taylor and thought it maybe had something to do with either Hardy Richardson or Art Groton. Both boys liked her—that was obvious. But she was a very pretty girl with her tiny, sexy body and vivacity. Hardy liked to flirt and say wild things; Art was quieter, gazing in wonder at her all the time. Had they gotten into a fight over her? Or had one of them threatened her?
She knew, of course, that sometimes those from abusive homes or situations could lean toward being abusers in return. Unless, of course, the cycle was broken.
She hurried around the Old State House and on to Court Street and then around the corner to head for the Granary Burial Ground. Turning back, she smiled and waved to Justin Hornsby.
He waved back. She didn’t know why he didn’t just walk with her.
When she reached the cemetery, she didn’t see Cheryl at first. She walked around the old slate graves and marveled at the age of the cemetery, the air of nostalgia, sadness and history about it. She was ready to call Cheryl back and ask where she was when the girl stepped nervously from around a tree. “Hey!” she said to her softly.
“Hey. There’s a bench over there. Want to sit?”
Cheryl nodded nervously. “Where’s your cop?”
“Right back there,” Vickie said. She pointed around the graves, smiled and waved at Justin Hornsby. He smiled and waved back.
Cheryl let out a long sigh. “He’s going to kill me,” she said.
A sudden loud scream erupted. Both Vickie and Cheryl leaped up and looked toward the street. There had been a tremendous crash—a car had veered around another car and slammed into two others. People were screaming.
“What the hel—heck?” Vickie murmured, automatically remembering Cheryl might use any language herself, but an adult should be careful.
“A baby carriage! There was a baby carriage in the road.”
“Come on—let’s get closer. I don’t see Officer Hornsby now. He’s probably moved out to see if someone needs help,” Vickie said.
“No, no, come back...we have to stay back! He’ll see us. He’s going to kill me!”
“Who?”
At that same moment, Vickie saw Roxanne a few rows away in the cemetery. Her friend lifted a brow to her, looked toward the street, and shook her head.
Then, Roxanne seemed to pale, going dead still, staring.
Vickie whipped around again.
Hank Fremont was also at the cemetery, heading toward her. He paused, seeing Roxanne was a distance across the ancient stones and sarcophagi.
“Come on!” Cheryl said, grabbing her hand and heading through the stones. “Come on, please.”
For a moment, Vickie was pulled along at Cheryl’s impetus. Then she stopped. Roxanne was there. And Hank had been going after her.
Cheryl tugged back on Vickie’s hand. “Vickie! We need to go to the crowd, and I have a friend back there and...” She turned.
Hank and Roxanne were together. Walking toward her and Cheryl.
“Come on!” Cheryl said. “Now, run!”
“Wait!” Vickie protested.
Maybe Hank was a killer.
She hadn’t seen him in years. She’d known him as a kid in high school—she did not know the man he had become.
She did know Roxanne. Her best friend.
Something wasn’t right.
Suddenly they were behind a maintenance vehicle. “Down!” Cheryl urged.
Though wary, Vickie ducked low, then looked around the big dusty vehicle. She gasped; Roxanne was screaming, falling to the ground.
But Hank wasn’t hurting her. Hank was prone on the ground as well.
“Oh...” Cheryl murmured. “Look! He got them—he got them!”
And as she looked, Vickie saw a man running toward them.
It was Hardy Richardson. Vickie gasped, starting to rise. It was all getting too crazy.
Hardy was there? Hardy had just saved them from... Hank?
But Cheryl’s next words startled her; they didn’t fit.
“Hardy! You can’t kill me—I don’t care what he told you! You can’t kill me. Look, I got her for you! See, I got her for you.”
“It might as well be Grand Central Station here!” Hardy spat out furiously. “And you went to her for help. You made it look like it was all me.”
“What the hell?” Vickie demanded. She did not adjust her language that time. She stared at Cheryl.
Then she knew. Take away the schoolgirl hair and switch up a few things and...
Cheryl was the woman in the sketch artist’s renderings. And looking at her now...
It was always so hard to tell a young woman’s age. Cheryl was so petite, but...
Maybe she wasn’t just seventeen!
“No, no,” the girl said.
But even as Vickie looked at her, she saw Hardy moving out of the corner of her eye.
He was gripping a piece of an old marble tombstone.
And it was coming down on her head.
* * *
Griffin discovered Vickie was not at the aquarium. Most of her high school kids were there, waiting.
The minute she didn’t answer her phone, his instincts went on alarm. He didn’t have to try to reach Officer Justin Hornsby. Hornsby dialed him.
“The cemetery. There was a crash in the street. People screamed—I thought someone was near death. I turned and she was gone. She was just meeting a kid, Special Agent Pryce. She was just with one of her kids...”
Griffin was pretty sure he swore. “You’ve lost her. Where?”
“At the Granary.”
Griffin didn’t wait for more. He left the aquarium. He ran. His car was there, but the Boston traffic was jammed.
Running was faster.
He made it in a matter of minutes. Cop cars were there already, but it was a scene of mass confusion; they were dealing with the accident on the street.
He raced into the cemetery, shouting Vickie’s name. And as he made his way through the stones, he nearly tripped.
Over the prone body of Hank Fremont.
And at his side, hand in hand with him, was Roxanne Greeley.
He hunkered down, feeling for pulses. Both were alive. He saw blood dripping down their foreheads; residue of broken tombstones mingled with the blood.
He rose, shouting for help. Officer Hornsby pushed his way out of the street crowd and jumped over a barrier to come running toward him.
“Get help for them—get an ambulance,” he said.
Hornsby was on it immediately—he yelled into the street, demanding EMTs on the double.
Griffin rose and looked around the cemetery. He hurried around slate and marble stones, death heads and sarcophagi.
His phone rang. Jackson.
“It’s the kid, Griffin. One of Vickie’s so-called girls. She’s using the identity of a dead teen from Worcester County. They just found her body in a weir last night. The real Cheryl Taylor. Watch out for the girl. It’s got to be her and Hank.”
“Vickie’s missing, Jackson, I’m here, where she disappeared. Granary. It’s not Hank, Jackson. Hank is on the ground with his head bashed in. Along with Roxanne Greeley. It’s only been a matter of minutes. I’
“I’m on my way.”
There was a maintenance vehicle parked up against a section of tombstones.
Griffin hurried to it.
There was a woman on the ground. His heart froze. Her head was so matted with blood that he had to stoop down...
He turned her over.
Not Vickie.
It was Cheryl Taylor.
Or the woman who had claimed to be Cheryl Taylor, teenager. And June Jensen adult.
Her eyes, glazed, stared up at him.
She was dead.
* * *
Vickie awoke with a searing pain in her temple. For a moment, all she could feel was the pain. And then she realized the darkness, and, when she tried to move, realized she couldn’t. She was in a tight space.
She was in a box.
A coffin-like box.
But she could hear something.
Like dirt being shoveled over her.
“You’re an ass, Hardy!” she shouted. “This time, they’re going to get you. They’ll find you and Cheryl or June or whatever the hell her name is. And, guess what? They’re going to see to it you get a needle in your arm.”
The noise stopped. She felt a shift, as if someone had lowered himself right over her.
“Guess what?” Hardy asked.
“What?”
“They are going to get Susan. Oh, that’s her real name. Susan. Susan Malloy.” He laughed. “And she’s twenty-three. All grown up. And she was good—for a while. But women! Who can trust them? They can be the worst! That brat was going to tell you it was all me. That I forced her into sleeping with men for information and I raped her and subjugated her and she was afraid for her life and all that rot...biggest pile of bull anywhere! Want to know where we met? Wait, don’t answer, save your air. We met through my dad. You know my dad. Bertram Aldridge. She was one of those women in awe of a prisoner like him. She was his fan, yeah. Sicko herself. Who do you think came up with the idea of burying people or shutting them into things, huh? She liked the torture of it. She liked to bet me just how long someone could stay alive. Oh, and she was the jerk who threw the first girl into the water. What a fiasco. I mean, torture? She wasn’t tortured long. She had to have died pretty quick. But hell, the newspaper even ignored us then. We had to be more careful next time. And then, there you go! Two dead women and someone finally starts paying attention to the clues. Thing is, I didn’t even care about Chrissy Ballantine. That one was really for my dad. Did you know that a Ballantine killed people years ago—and look at George Ballantine now! A pillar of society. A rich man. People were murdered for all that gold. Well, about half of it, anyway. We got the rest. When Dad broke out years ago, he knew he probably couldn’t get to George himself. But he could do worse—he could kill his other kid. Use the kid, maybe, to find out if that gold was still around—hadn’t figured out where it was yet—but he could make George give it to him...and then kill the kid. That’s the worst torture in the world, so I’ve been told. My dad told me. Said it was torture that my mother had lied about having me—she tried to tell him that there was something wrong with him, so she kept his baby from him! Go figure on that. But...ah, well, I may not be able to get that FBI agent, but killing you will be torture for him, right?”