Don't Be Afraid Read online

  “No.”

  Alison waited for her to say more, an expectant look on her face that sickened Amy. Was this what it was like to be the friend of someone who’d been murdered? Had she been this insensitive at one time? Only she couldn’t think of a single time before now when she’d even been an acquaintance of someone who’d been murdered.

  She was spared from saying more by Beverly, the middle-aged receptionist waving frantically. “Your school’s nurse just called. Emma’s having an asthma attack!”

  Chapter 6

  The Steerforth coroner’s office looked from the outside like a fairly nice hotel. The flowerbeds flanking the concrete walkway were overflowing with mums in autumnal colors. Probably the only living thing in the place, Juarez thought as he followed Black in through the front doors.

  There all resemblance to a hotel abruptly faded as one’s nostrils were assaulted by the smell of cleaning fluids and formaldehyde.

  “He’s waiting for you downstairs, boys.” The paunchy security guard sitting at the front desk barely glanced up from his People magazine. He took another bite of an enormous meatball hoagie, apparently impervious to the odors that made Juarez’s appetite curl up and die.

  They took the elevator down to the basement and came out into a dimly lit hallway slightly warmer than a freezer. Wallace Crane poked his head out of an open doorway and beckoned to them.

  “Like we haven’t been here enough times to figure out which room he’s in,” Black muttered. “Pompous jackass.”

  What was left of Sheila Sylvester was lying on a stainless-steel examining table illuminated by powerfully bright dangling lights. The coroner was wearing a lab coat, which was immaculately white except for a small constellation of rust-colored spots just above the waist. Juarez, who was used to seeing victims of gunshot wounds and visiting crime scenes splattered with blood, nonetheless felt squeamish and looked instead at Crane’s face.

  There were two bright spots of pink on the coroner’s pale cheeks and a small smile played on his thin lips. “I’ve got something very interesting—very interesting indeed—to show you, gentlemen,” he said with the air of a magician about to perform a spectacular trick. Juarez half expected him to rub his hands together with glee, and perhaps he would if it weren’t for the gloves encasing them.

  “What?” Black’s bluntness was deliberate, but Crane seemed to take no notice.

  “I told you that the murder weapon was a high-speed, rapid-fire nail gun—have you found it yet?”

  “Yeah, it was delivered this morning with a big bow on top and a note from the murderer thanking you for figuring it out.”

  Crane narrowed his eyes at the older detective for a long moment as if he were a specimen he longed to be able to cut open on one of his tables. Then he gave a dry laugh. “Crudely amusing, detective. No doubt you missed your true calling on the comedy circuit.”

  “You found something else?” Juarez asked, stepping casually in front of Black to prevent a possible lunge at the coroner.

  “Yes, and I thought it best that you see it for yourselves.” He stepped closer to the examination table and removed a metal basin from one of the equipment tables nearby.

  “While examining the deceased’s internal organs I found this.” He reached into the basin and held up a tiny brown figurine.

  “What the hell is that?” Black said, but he, like Juarez, was already reaching for gloves from the box on a counter. They took turns examining it. It was a crudely formed plastic statue.

  “It’s St. Joseph,” Juarez said, noticing the faint hammer and carpenter’s square the robed and bearded figure was holding in his folded arms.

  “I believe realtors use these as some sort of good-luck totem to help them sell homes,” Crane said.

  “Where was it?” Juarez asked.

  “In the vaginal cavity very close to her uterus.”

  “He’d shoved it in her twat?” Black said, oblivious to Crane’s wince. “That is one angry son-of-a-bitch. Before or after?”

  “Excuse me?” Crane looked puzzled.

  “Before or after he killed her?”

  “I can’t be entirely sure, but I believe it was placed there postmortem.”

  Juarez felt his body prickling with the tension that always seemed to precede major cases. “Was there anything else?”

  “No more statues, if that’s what you mean.” Crane chuckled at his own humor.

  “I mean anything else out of the ordinary.”

  “No, not especially. She didn’t appear to fight whoever attacked her. There’s no skin under the nails and all the nails are intact. Minimal bruising, mainly of her wrists. I think he surprised her and it was done very rapidly.”

  “What about the missing ring finger?”

  “Snipped off, not cut. It’s a clean cut, not jagged. Probably pruning shears.” He bagged the small statue and handed it over to them. “Oh, and there’s one more thing, gentlemen. There were traces of dirt on the statue.”

  “Anything unusual?”

  Crane shook his head. “Trace amounts of fertilizer, but it looks like what the average homeowner would use on their lawn.”

  Juarez took large gulps of fresh air when they exited the building a few minutes later. “I don’t think it’s Trevor.”

  “Because of the statue? I think that fits him to a T.”

  Black pulled out a cigarette and put it in his mouth, taking imaginary puffs. His own personal nicorette system to force himself to quit.

  “The nail gun, the finger, the statue—this has the earmarks of a skillful killer,” Juarez said.

  “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just a pissed-off, drunken ex.”

  “What about the statue? What message is he sending with that?”

  “That he’s angry and he wants to hurt her.”

  “Then why do it postmortem—”

  “Crane wasn’t sure about that—”

  “—and why kill her with a nail gun? She was killed pretty quickly, Crane said. That doesn’t sound like an angry ex to me.”

  “Which is why he used the statue. He wanted to kill her fast and he needed the satisfaction of hurting her.” Black sounded pleased with his theory. He eyed his partner knowingly. “Missing the excitement of the big city? Looking for some big-time killer? You hoping to find out that she was some mafia bigwig’s mistress?”

  “I think we need to keep an open mind and consider the possibility of other suspects.”

  “What we need,” Black said grinding the unlit cigarette out under his foot, “is to find our boy Trevor.”

  As soon as Amy pushed through the doors into the school, she saw the school secretary waiting for her.

  “She’s in the nurse’s office, Mrs. Moran,” the older woman said, hustling her down the hall to another door.

  Emma was lying on a leather chaise with an oxygen mask being held to her face by a uniformed paramedic. Another paramedic was kneeling next to an equipment case. Emma’s eyes were huge, her face pale, and she looked very, very small.

  “Mommy’s here,” Amy said, pushing through the small crowd of adults clustered around the couch and dropping to her knees so she was eye level with her daughter. She took one of Emma’s tiny hands and pressed kisses on it. “How are you doing, sweetie?”

  “ ’Kay, Mommy.” The sound was muffled but clear.

  “She’s stabilized,” the paramedic sitting next to her said. “It was fairly mild. Levels at eighty percent but she’s had oxygen for ten minutes and I think the levels will rise even further.”

  “Thank you,” Amy said, never taking her eyes off Emma.

  “I don’t know what happened, Mrs. Moran.” The kindergarten teacher sounded flustered. “She was fine at lunch, maybe a little wheezy, but nothing out of the ordinary. During quiet time it just suddenly got a lot worse and she couldn’t seem to get anything from the inhaler—”

  “Mrs. Strohmeyer got Emma straight to Nurse Hannigan who immediately called the office and we called 911,” the principal
’s gravelly voice interrupted. “Thanks to their quick action, help got here right away.”

  Clear in her tone was that the school had done nothing but help Emma and they weren’t responsible for her state.

  “Thank you,” Amy said, turning to acknowledge all of the women, “but why wasn’t my cell phone called? You have that number in the file, right?”

  “I did call that number,” the secretary said, “but it put me through to your voice mail. I left a message there, too.”

  Amy suddenly remembered that she’d switched it off instead of turning it to vibrate when she stopped off at St. Andrew’s. Stupid, she thought, mentally berating that thoughtless action. She was usually so careful with her cell phone—she had to be. Sheila’s death had thrown her off balance. What if she hadn’t been at the realty office when the school called? The thought made her stomach lurch.

  “This was a pretty severe attack,” the paramedic handling the equipment said. “But Ryan’s great with kids.”

  “Thank you,” Amy said, lifting her head to look at both paramedics. The sandy-haired woman loading the equipment acknowledged her with a smile and after a moment so did the dark-haired man named Ryan. He smiled at her, and a small scar above one of his eyebrows quirked along with his mouth.

  “Let’s see how you’re doing now, cutie,” he said to Emma, gently pulling the mask off her face. He gave her the peak flow test again and carefully watched the dial, calling the numbers out to his partner.

  “That’s well within the normal range,” he said to Amy, “but I’d monitor her for the rest of the day and have her take it easy.” He ruffled Emma’s hair. “No trapeze practice today, okay?”

  “Trapeze?!” Emma giggled. “I’m not in the circus.”

  “You’re not? I thought you were a trapeze artist. I must have you confused with someone else. Are you the ring leader?”

  “No!”

  “Lion tamer?”

  “I’m not in the circus!”

  “Oooh. You’re not a clown, are you? Because you can’t do any clowning today either.”

  Emma was convulsed by giggles and Amy tensed for a moment before realizing that Emma was breathing easily. She also realized that Ryan was watching her closely and that making her laugh hard had been his intention so he could see just where she was post-attack.

  “You seem to know a lot about asthma,” she said while he was packing up. The nurse was busy recording the incident for her files, while the principal and her secretary had returned to their offices. Mrs. Strohmeyer had gone with Emma to fetch her backpack and coat so Amy could take her home.

  “One of my cousins had asthma,” the paramedic said. “I learned a lot about it.”

  “Well, thank you so much. I was terrified when I got the call.”

  “She’s a strong little girl. She might grow out of it.”

  “Do you really think so?” It was Amy’s secret desire, but one that she was afraid to give voice to with the doctors, terrified that they’d tell her that there wasn’t a chance.

  “She might. It happens.”

  Emma came back, hand tightly clutched in Mrs. Strohmeyer’s. Now that the danger had passed, Amy could appreciate just how flustered the unflappable teacher had been. Under other circumstances, Amy would have been more amused, but she did take a small amount of pleasure in having the upper hand for once. Until Mrs. Strohmeyer and the school nurse pulled her aside.

  “Maybe Emma needs a little break from school,” the kindergarten teacher said, while the whey-faced Nurse Hannigan nodded enthusiastically.

  “A break?” Amy looked from one woman to the other, not immediately understanding.

  “Kindergarten is optional, you know. Emma might do better at home.”

  Amy’s own chest tightened. “At home,” she repeated.

  “Yes. That way she could have the one-on-one attention she needs.”

  “I think Emma needs kindergarten and she definitely likes it.” Amy struggled to keep her voice level, but she could feel her face coloring with anger.

  “There are other schools that might be better,” the nurse said.

  “What other schools?” Amy snapped. “Schools for asthmatic children? I didn’t realize Steerforth had an Academy for Asthma Sufferers.”

  “We’re only trying to help, Mrs. Moran,” Mrs. Strohmeyer said, in a voice at once placating and condescending.

  “Emma is just fine and she’s staying right here,” Amy said. “She has a treatable medical condition and if she needs help, like today, I expect you to help her.”

  She grabbed her daughter’s backpack and pulled Emma away from the glass unicorn on the nurse’s desk. The paramedics were loading equipment back into their van and Ryan paused as Amy walked stiffly to her own car and ushered Emma into her booster seat.

  “Everything okay?”

  No, she wanted to tell him. No, everything is most definitely not okay. My best friend’s just been murdered, my husband is soon to be my ex, I’m not sure I have enough money to pay my mortgage and my daughter has been in and out of the hospital since she was born. Everything is most definitely not okay.

  Instead she said, “Just ignorance. Teachers who are afraid and don’t want to have to deal with an attack again. It happens.”

  “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged, trying to appear casual, but the day was getting to her and she could feel tears rising yet again.

  “Some days you just wish you’d pulled the covers back up and waited for the next one,” he said with a sympathetic smile and she laughed, a little shakily.

  Emma seemed her usual self on the ride home, chattering about what she’d done in school and what some stupid boy had said at recess. Amy half listened while she drove, checking her often in the rearview mirror. She struggled to put the teacher’s words out of her mind, but they’d nurtured the anxiety inside her and she could feel it blossoming.

  They pulled into their driveway and Emma announced that she was going to play outside.

  “No, Em, no playing outside this afternoon.”

  “But I want to play on the swings!”

  “You can play something quiet inside.”

  “Outside!” She hopped out of the car and slammed the door to emphasize her displeasure.

  “That’s enough, young lady. You have to take it easy today—that’s what the nice paramedic said. How about watching a movie?”

  “Little Mermaid?”

  Amy sighed. Her daughter was going through a Disney phase and there was nothing she could do to dissuade her. She’d watched Little Mermaid—the current favorite—more than fifty times and still wasn’t tired of it.

  “Okay, Little Mermaid.”

  “And chocolate milk?” Emma smiled her super-sweet, manipulating-Mommy smile.

  “And chocolate milk,” Amy capitulated.

  Soon the sounds of “Under the Sea” were echoing through the house for the umpteenth time. Emma was happily singing along off-key between loud, slurping sips of chocolate milk.

  Amy collapsed on the living room sofa and closed her eyes, just for a moment. A loud bang startled her awake.

  Emma!

  Amy sprang up and ran toward the kitchen, expecting to hear an answering wail, but there was no other sound. The kitchen was empty, the chair where Emma had been sitting still upright. The only thing left of her presence was the smudged glass with remnants of chocolate milk.

  The back door was ajar. Amy stepped out on the back porch and looked around the yard. “Emma?”

  The only answer was the wind rustling the leaves in the trees and the faint creaking from the playset where an empty swing rocked slowly back and forth. Amy turned to go back in the house when a scrap of bright pink caught her eye.

  It was Emma’s stuffed bunny. Amy plucked it off the lawn and looked around again. What was it doing out here? This was a toy that rarely left Emma’s bed.

  “Emma? Emma, come out this minute! This isn’t funny, Emma!”

  Trees
bordered the back of the property. Not enough to be considered a real forest, surely, but that’s how Amy thought of them, as their woods. She’d embraced the privacy at one point. Now the dark stretch of trunks seemed menacing. She blinked in the sun, shading her eyes to see any movement. Everything was in shadows. What if Emma had wandered off, or worse, been taken?

  Amy ran back in the house clutching the stuffed bunny. “Emma!” she screamed as she barged through the back door. “Emma, where are you?”

  She searched the house, bargaining with God. If she’s all right, I’ll never fall asleep again. I’ll keep her safe. Please let her be all right.

  She was turning away from her bedroom when she heard a faint giggle. Amy whirled around. “Emma?”

  Silence. She slid back the closet door. Nothing. Then she saw the smallest movement of the embroidered bedskirt. Amy knelt down and lifted it. Emma’s small face grinned at her. “Boo!”

  Relief mixed in equal parts with anger. Amy pulled her out from under the bed and crushed her against her chest.

  “Don’t ever do that again,” she said in her fiercest voice.

  “It was hide-and-seek, Mommy.”

  “I don’t like that game, Emma. That game scares Mommy.”

  “Didn’t I pick a good place to hide?”

  She sounded unsure and her fingers slipped into her mouth. Amy relented. “Yes, you picked a good place. That’s the problem—you’re too good at that game.”

  “Sorry I scared you,” Emma said, but she smiled as she said it and her small fingers left her mouth to pluck at the bunny in Amy’s hand.

  “What are you doing with Hoppy?”

  “I found her outside. Were you outside playing when Mommy was asleep?” Amy said, holding her still so she could look into her daughter’s eyes.

  “You said not to,” Emma said patiently, as if that explained it all.

  “But did you anyway, Emma? Did you take Hoppy and go outside?”

  Emma looked solemn. “No, Mommy.”

  “Then how did your bunny end up outside? Did you leave it outside yesterday?” But even as she asked, Amy could remember tucking Emma in with it last night. Or had she? She’d been so distracted yesterday because of Sheila’s death, maybe she’d overlooked it.