The Red Queen Dies (29 page)

“So, let me get this straight. The company that Redfield worked for had a contract with one of Thornton's companies.”

“You've got it.”

“Is Redfield still working for the company?”

“No, his contract with them ended a couple of years ago.”

“About the time his wife died.”

Baxter sent the document he was looking at to the wall. “See this? Redfield was working on his last contract with the company when his wife died. In fact, the company submitted a bid to Thornton the morning that Redfield's wife died.”

“So that must have been why he was working late the night before.”

“And then he came home and went to bed. And while he was asleep, his wife fell from a ladder—”

“And she died and so did their baby,” McCabe said.

Baxter sat down on the edge of his desk. “Wanna bet Thornton isn't one of Redfield's favorite people?”

“But,” McCabe said, “we still have a big gap between that and three women being murdered.”

“One of the women was Vivian Jessup. She and Thornton—”

“But if Redfield were getting revenge on Thornton for … at least in his mind … being responsible for his wife's death, why not go after Thornton's current fiancée rather than a woman who might have been Thornton's lover at some point?”

Baxter said, “And there's no way to connect any of this to the summer science camp that brought Bethany and Sharon together.”

“Unless…” McCabe stared at the bulletin board across the room, trying to think it through. “Unless Clarence Redfield is connected somehow to that summer science camp.”

“How? We're pretty sure he wasn't a teacher there. And Deirdre Chase said she was the only teaching assistant.”

“But we know Redfield was here in Albany in 2010, because he was suing his father's doctor for malpractice.”

“Right. His first job out of the country was in November 2011. He went to Saudi Arabia. That summer of 2010, his father was in a nursing home, and Redfield was living at home with his mother. He had a job with a local company.”

McCabe stood up and went to the wall work space. “Okay, let's get the time line up. Redfield attends college in Massachusetts from 2000 to 2004. He comes home for a couple of years. Then he leaves to take his first oil company job.”

Baxter said, “According to Research, the company he was working for here in Albany got hit by the recession and went out of business.”

McCabe nodded. “Okay. So that probably explains why he decided to take the oil company job in October 2006. Then his father is ill, and he comes home. Is here in 2010, when Bethany, Sharon, and Johnnie Mae are attending a summer science camp.”

“So,” said Baxter. “How does Redfield come in contact with two or maybe three little girls at a science camp?”

“If he did come in contact with them. We may really be reaching on this one.”

Baxter shook his head. “I think we're onto something.”

“Or maybe we just don't like the guy.”

“Well, we've already spent all this time on it, so we may as well finish playing it out.”

“True.” McCabe picked up her mug and went over to the coffee machine. “Okay. Maybe Redfield was a relative of one of the other students.”

“No brothers or sisters,” Baxter said. “And his parents seem to have been only children, too.”

“What about…” McCabe whirled around. “Remember what Deirdre Chase, the teaching assistant, told us? That she and the teacher went out looking for Johnnie Mae. And when they got back to the camp, the director told them that Johnnie Mae's sister and the sister's boyfriend had gone to pick Johnnie Mae up. What if Redfield was—”

“The sister's boyfriend?” Baxter said. “What do we have on Johnnie Mae's older sister?”

“Anything?” McCabe said, watching him check his screen.

“Research is still trying to pick up the trail after the family left Albany. But we have a name for the sister. Melanie. Melanie Jacobs. She and Johnnie Mae had different fathers.”

“Do we know yet if Johnnie Mae was biracial?” McCabe asked.

“Black father. Melanie's father was white. So was the mother.”

“So, next question,” McCabe said. “Did Melanie Jacobs and Clarence Redfield know each other when they both lived here in Albany?”

They were twiddling their thumbs and waiting when the lieutenant passed through the bull pen. “You two got nothing to do?” he said.

“We're waiting on Research, Lou,” McCabe said. “We've got this idea about Clarence Redfield.”

“How he might be tied into our serial murder case,” Baxter added.

The lieutenant gestured toward his office. “I want to hear this.”

*   *   *

They were still in the lieutenant's office, going over everything they knew about Clarence Redfield, when McCabe received a tag from Research. “They're both dead,” she said.

“Who?” the lieutenant asked. “We don't need any more bodies.”

“Johnnie Mae Dupree and her mother. According to Research, they're both dead. When they left here, the mother and the two daughters went to Santa Fe, New Mexico. The mother opened a craft shop. The shop lost money, until she finally closed. A few weeks after that, Johnnie Mae, who had been enrolled in school, was admitted to a hospital after she passed out in class. She was diagnosed with anorexia. While she was in the hospital being treated, she came down with pneumonia. She died a few days later.”

“So that left the mother and the older sister, Melanie,” Baxter said.

“But the following week, the mother was picked up by the police in a disoriented state. She was taken to a treatment facility. The doctors diagnosed her as bipolar. She was given meds and released. Ten days later, her daughter, Melanie, called nine-one-one. The mother had OD'd on prescription and other drugs. She was DOA by the time they got her to the hospital.”

Lieutenant Dole said, “What happened to the older sister after that? She's the one you say you're interested in.”

McCabe shook her head. “Research can't find any record of her. She walked out of the hospital after her mother died and disappeared. She didn't even go back to the house they were renting to close it up.”

“Damn,” Baxter said. “Nine years ago, people could still do that. Even with Homeland Security, it was possible just to walk away. Become someone else.”

“Assuming she did,” McCabe said. “For all we know, she may be dead, too.”

“What about her possible link to Redfield?” the lieutenant said. “Anything on that?”

“Not yet. According to Research, she did have a job when the family lived here in Albany. She worked for a telecommunications company. One of the computer techs. But the company moved south back in 2014. Research is trying to contact that personnel department to find out if they can provide any information about her.”

Baxter said, “Which won't help us much unless she and Redfield crossed path through their jobs.”

Lieutenant Dole said, “Stay on this. The missing sister and Redfield's connection to Thornton is a lot more promising than anything else we've had. If that little shit's involved somehow—”

“Then we have to give the guy major points for chutzpah,” Baxter said.

 

27

 

At noon, McCabe and Baxter decided to go out and get some lunch.

McCabe offered to pay off the bet Baxter had won at the eating place of his choice. As long as he remembered they were dining on a cop's salary.

“I could go for a really good fish sandwich,” Baxter said. “Let's see if we can get a table on the barge without shoving anyone off.”

“The barge” was a floating restaurant on the bank of the Hudson River. Today, when the temperature was back in the mid-eighties, with a slight breeze, it was the ideal place for lunch.

They drove along Broadway, passing the massive building that housed the SUNY administrative offices, then through the underpass and along the road that ran parallel to the river.

When Baxter turned into the parking lot, McCabe looked at all the cars. “Well, if we're lucky, maybe we've at least beaten the people who are taking the river walk over.”

Baxter said, “It was bad enough when we just had state workers. Now we've got UAlbany's nanotech operation and the convention center, and getting a table anywhere at noontime is a pain in the ass.”

“You get grouchy when you're hungry, don't you?” McCabe said.

Baxter grinned, looking a little sheepish. “Feed me and I'll stop complaining.”

They waited fifteen minutes for a table, which wasn't bad, considering.

As soon as they were seated, Baxter asked for a basket of tortilla chips and green chili salsa.

“You're going to ruin your appetite for that fish sandwich you wanted,” McCabe said, watching him munch.

“Not likely. I haven't had anything to eat since dinner last night.”

“What happened to breakfast?”

“I had a choice. I didn't choose breakfast.”

McCabe shook her head. “Forget I asked.”

“I assume you spent the evening quietly at home.”

McCabe picked up her menu. “I think I'll have the seafood basket. They have great fried oysters here.”

“The clams are good, too,” Baxter said. “Had a hot date, did you?”

“What would give you that idea?”

“You're looking a lot more relaxed today.”

“I got up this morning and did a yoga meditation,” McCabe pointed at the railroad bridge arching over the river. “Have you ever been up there?”

“Up to that little hut, you mean? No, why?”

“Because the guy who works up there is sort of like that repairman in that old washing machine commercial. A lonely guy, up there all by himself for his whole shift. But he does have something to do. He coordinates with the trains coming in and out at the station and raises and lowers the drawbridge for ships and boats.”

“Not my kind of job,” Baxter said. “I'm the social type.” He crunched on another tortilla chip. “Not going to tell me about your hot date, huh?”

“You're assuming I had one.”

McCabe was dipping an oyster into cocktail sauce when her ORB buzzed. She reached for it with her free hand. “Got something from Research.”

Baxter, who was biting into his fish sandwich, nodded.

“They didn't find a work connection between Redfield and Melanie. But they did find an old link to a social network node.”

McCabe clicked on the link and started down at the photograph. Then she looked at Baxter. “Bingo, Mike.”

Baxter swallowed and wiped his mouth on his napkin. “What do we have?”

McCabe pushed her ORB toward him so that he could see. “Clarence and Melanie hiking the yellow brick road.”

McCabe clicked through the color photos, taken by “Clarence” as he and his female companion hiked from the community garden through the woods and along the sections of the old road. It was a beautiful day in the photos: sunshine, blue sky, even some shots of the Normanskill flowing placidly between the trees on either bank.

Baxter said, “So, we've got some photos with Melanie in them. Or at least as much as we can see of her under her floppy hat. But none of Clarence.”

“But how many couples named Clarence and Melanie were likely to have been in Albany in 2010?”

“Of course, this Clarence and Melanie could have come from someplace else—even some other state—and gone for a hike and posted the photos.”

McCabe speared another fried oyster and took a bite. “So we need forensics to see if they can figure out the origin of the photos. Where they came from, who posted them.”

“You would think if Redfield had posted them, he would have remembered to take them down.”

“People used to post lots of photos on the Web. If he even remembered these, all he might remember about them is that they were of the hike along the yellow brick road.”

“If they are his, we'll have proof that he had hiked in the area near where Vivian Jessup's body was dumped.”

McCabe said, “Of course, a lot of people who live in Albany have hiked there.”

“Okay, so what do we have? Do these photos give us anything useful?”

“I'd say it gives us enough to justify visiting Redfield and asking a few polite questions. Let's finish eating and then call the lieutenant.”

 

28

 

To Baxter's disappointment, they had drawn one of the department's older sedans when they went to the garage. He drove through the cross streets leading to Redfield's house without a great deal of flair.

McCabe said, “Redfield works at home, but let's hope he hasn't gone out to run errands.”

“We could have called ahead, but there would have gone our element of surprise.”

“If we were driving my car and it still had the tracker, he would probably be able to see we're coming.”

A battered black Jeep was in Redfield's driveway.

“He's home,” Baxter said. “Unless he decided to go green and take the bus.”

“Or has a bike,” McCabe said. “Or walked.”

McCabe rang the bell. They waited. She rang again.

“He really isn't here,” she said.

Baxter said, “Maybe he's out back doing yard work and didn't hear his bell. Let's walk around there and see if we spot him.”

“Keeping in mind, that we don't have a search warrant.”

“Absolutely,” Baxter said. “We're just assuming he must be somewhere around, since his car's in the driveway.”

They walked between the house and garage to get to the gate in the backyard fence. They stood there peering over. Clearly, unless he had shrunk or become invisible, Redfield was not in his backyard.

“Keeps his grass mowed,” Baxter said.

“Yes, he does,” said a dry female voice behind them. “He mows mine, too.”