The Red Queen Dies (35 page)

“We were talking about your mentor.”

“Alex?”

Ted nodded. “They had seen the photos that Alex took of Aaron Jessup and the other prison camp survivors he interviewed.”

Now Nichols stared out of her windshield. The sky was an eerie gray. She started to reach for the camera on the seat beside her and then laughed. “Not quite the time for taking pictures, Lisa.”

She reached instead for her ORB.

When he came on the screen, she said, “Hello, Clarence.”

“Melanie?”

“I need to see you.”

“Melanie, I…” He pressed his hands to his eyes. “I thought you—”

“I need your help. Please, Clarence.

He nodded. “Where do you want to meet?”

“The place we used to go.”

 

34

 

Snowflakes melted as they struck the windshield. Overhead, the wind whipped the traffic lights back and forth.

McCabe was on her ORB with Lieutenant Dole.

“We've got an ID on Nichols,” he said.

McCabe listened and turned to her partner. “Lisa Nichols is Melanie. She's Johnnie Mae Dupree's older sister, Melanie.”

Baxter cursed. “Right there under our noses.”

“Lou, we're going to head to Clarence Redfield's house.”

“Do that,” Dole said. “I can't wait to hear what the little bastard has to say about this.”

Redfield's Jeep was not in his driveway. They got out and knocked on his front door.

His neighbor did not look out of her door. Her car was gone, too.

“We could have used a nosy neighbor about now,” McCabe said.

Baxter said, “Want to bet Clarence and Melanie are together somewhere?”

“That would be news to Ted Thornton,” McCabe said.

*   *   *

Clarence Redfield stood a few feet from the woman he had not seen in nine years … until he saw her on the news, stepping off of Ted Thornton's airship.

“Melanie,” he said. “I'm glad you called. Are you all right?”

“Lisa,” she said. “My name is Lisa now.”

“You'll always be Melanie to me. My Melanie.”

She smiled and shook her head. “We can't go back, Clarence. That was a long time ago. We're different people now.”

“You look different. Your hair.” He took a step closer. “Even your eyes. Your beautiful blue eyes—”

“There's a treatment,” she said. “Blue eyes can become hazel.”

“But I knew it was you. As soon as I saw you smile and touch your throat. That gesture.”

“I guess it's impossible to change everything.”

“If you love someone, you never forget the things—”

“Clarence, I called because I need your help. I'm in trouble. I don't have anyone else to turn to.”

“What about your fiancé?”

“When he finds out who I used to be, that I don't have the pedigree that he thought I had—”

“If he loves you—”

“He loves the idea of me. Of ‘beautiful, smart, talented Lisa.'”

“Melanie…” Redfield shook his head. “What do you need from me?”

“I—” The wind whipped her blond hair across her eyes. She brushed it back with the slender hand with the scar on the thumb. The hand that he had recognized, remembered holding in his own, stroking. “I…”

“You said you were in trouble,” he said. “Tell me what I can do for you, Melanie.”

Tears glimmered in her eyes. “You have to help me, Clarence. If you ever loved me, you have to help me.”

*   *   *

The State Police helicopter that had spotted Redfield's car had reported the presence of a second car, a red sports car registered to Ted Thornton.

Following orders from headquarters, the copter had not lingered overhead.

Driving into the access road, McCabe and Baxter saw the two police cruisers that had been dispatched to the scene. Baxter pulled up behind them.

The two officers were in position, the abandoned planetarium in sight, their presence concealed by the overgrowth of trees and bushes.

They turned their heads to look at McCabe and Baxter. McCabe stepped out of the car and held up her hand to indicate they needed a moment.

She looked at Baxter, who had gotten out on the driver's side. “We're going to assume that one of the people inside might be in danger.”

“Or,” Baxter said, “we could assume they're in this together.”

“Whatever is happening in there,” McCabe said, “we are not going to rush in and provoke a situation.”

“What are we going to do, then?” Baxter asked. “Walk up to the door and say hello?”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” McCabe said.

They were halfway up the crumbling walk when they heard a woman scream—a piercing scream that was snatched up by the wind.

McCabe pulled her gun from her holster as she ran. Baxter was right behind her.

On her ORB, McCabe instructed the two officers to move up to the door and hold their positions.

She tripped on a cracked tile inside the door, righted herself, and moved more slowly along the corridor, where gray light came only through the broken windows.

Baxter moved to the other wall, paralleling her movement.

They reached a doorway and saw the stairs climbing upward.

The wind howled around the building. Up above, the words being said were indistinct. A man's voice, angry, demanding. A woman's sobbing response.

The stairs creaked as they climbed, McCabe leading the way.

The door onto the roof was off its hinge. McCabe stopped, listening, allowing her eyes to adjust to the light. Then she stepped out onto the roof. Baxter followed her.

“Clarence,” she said, keeping her gaze trained on the man who was holding a stunner. “Clarence, you don't want to do this.”

He turned slowly toward them. “You don't understand.”

“Why don't you put the stunner down and explain it to us,” McCabe said.

Lisa Nichols—Melanie—had her hands to her mouth. She was sobbing.

“It isn't what you think,” Redfield said. He put the stunner down carefully on the planetarium's rutted roll-away roof.

McCabe said, “Now you come toward us, Ms. Nichols.”

Lisa Nichols stared at them, her gaze like that of a deer caught in a headlight. She reached down to pick up the camera case at her feet.

“Just leave that and come toward us,” McCabe said.

“I can't,” Nichols said. “I need this.”

She reached for the case. Redfield said, “No, Melanie. No.”

McCabe said, “Don't move, Mr. Redfield. Stay right where you are.”

“You don't understand. She—”

Nichols screamed and lunged toward him. She was holding a hypodermic. McCabe fired her gun.

 

35

 

When the doctor came out of surgery and told them that Lisa Nichols was going to live, McCabe stood up and walked out into the hallway. She went down the hall and leaned against the wall, then slid down and sat on the floor.

Lieutenant Dole came out and looked down at her. “If she had died, it would have been a righteous shoot.”

“I know that,” McCabe said. “But I'm glad she's not going to die.”

Lieutenant Dole said, “Redfield is ready to make his statement. You can't take part in the interview, but you probably want to hear this.”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

McCabe stood up and swiped at her eyes and nose.

*   *   *

Clarence Redfield looked up at them from his bed. The hypodermic had grazed him. Enough to pierce the skin of his arm and require observation.

His face was drained of color. The look in his eyes had nothing to do with the phenol.

He said, “I thought … I recognized the name of the first girl … remembered Johnnie Mae. But I couldn't believe. But then … when the second one … Sharon…”

“Why didn't you report your suspicions?” Lieutenant Dole asked.

“I loved her,” Redfield said. “I still loved her.” He glanced toward the door, which was ajar, as if he knew McCabe was there listening. “And I didn't know for sure. I couldn't be sure. Someone else could have—”

“So, you decided to let it ride,” Dole said. “And then Vivian Jessup was murdered.”

Redfield said, “That … I couldn't believe that Melanie…”

“And you had already started to play up the idea of a serial killer stalking his victims,” Dole said.

“I hoped that if she was the … if she had … I hoped she would stop.”

“You hoped that, did you? Three women were dead, and you hoped—”

“Don't you understand? I didn't know what to do.” Redfield rubbed his hand over his face. “I tried to contact her, but she didn't respond.” He looked up at the lieutenant. “After Vivian Jessup … I knew Melanie … I knew she wasn't going to be all right. But I didn't know how to help her.”

“How the hell could you ever have thought she would be all right when she was going around killing people?” Dole said.

Clarence Redfield closed his eyes and shook his head. “It wasn't her. It wasn't my Melanie, not the woman I'd known.”

*   *   *

The next day, Dole, Baxter, and McCabe were back at the hospital, sitting in the office of the pharmacologist who had reviewed the lab analysis of the combination of drugs in Lisa Nichols's system.

McCabe had been instructed to remain silent during the interview.

“Bad combination of drugs,” the pharmacologist said. “She was taking a prescribed anticonvulsant for migraine headaches. And medication she was self-prescribing for an allergy.”

“An allergy?” Baxter said. “What kind of allergy?”

“A cat,” the pharmacologist said. “Her fiancé said she was taking the allergy medication because she's allergic to his cat.”

Horatio? McCabe thought. Had Lisa Nichols been done in by Horatio? By the maid, Rosalind, offering medication to anyone who was allergic to Ted Thornton's Maine coon cat?

And, for that matter, is Ted Thornton still Nichols's fiancé? McCabe wondered. Does he intend to stand by her?

“That was enough to make her kill three people?” Lieutenant Dole was saying. “Allergy medication?”

“I'm not saying that,” the pharmacologist said. “I'm simply saying that the combination of drugs could have caused side effects that might have aggravated preexisting psychological problems. According to the physician who prescribed the migraine medication, Ms. Nichols had been experiencing a recurrence of a syndrome she had as a child.”

“What syndrome?” Dole asked.

“AIWS. Alice in Wonderland Syndrome.”

The three detectives in the room looked at one another and then at the pharmacologist. “Could you repeat that?” Baxter said.

“The sufferer, child or adult, perceives his or her body as distorted and experiences spatial distortions. Hence the name of the syndrome. Some people, particularly children, experience AIWS on waking. The syndrome is also fairly common among migraine sufferers.”

“Do you know about Vivian Jessup?” McCabe blurted out.

The pharmacologist nodded. “A bit of a coincidence, isn't it?” He shrugged. “But AIWS isn't that uncommon. And I have been able to confirm from her old medical records that Ms. Nichols did have AIWS as a child and teenager and also experienced intense migraines.”

After their interview with the pharmacologist, Dole said they'd better talk to Redfield again. McCabe took up her post outside the door while Dole and Baxter went into Redfield's room.

In response to Dole's question, Redfield said, “Yes, I knew that Melanie had migraines. That was how we met. In a Web chat room for people who had migraines and had experienced AIWS.” He frowned and gestured. “AIWS is—”

Dole said, “We've heard the term. So you and Melanie both had migraines and AIWS?”

“Yes, but my AIWS went away. I don't even get migraines that often anymore.” His gaze narrowed. “Why are you asking me this? Is Melanie ill? Is that why she—”

Dole cut him off. “That's up to the experts to determine, Mr. Redfield. Thank you for talking to us.”

As they walked down the hall, the lieutenant glanced at McCabe and Baxter, “Good work. But don't expect it to stick. By the time this is over, not only will Lisa Nichols probably walk but the drug company that made the allergy medicine will be the villain.”

McCabe stopped short. The lieutenant and Baxter turned to look at her.

“You okay, partner?” Baxter asked.

McCabe nodded. “Just suffering from brain overload.”

“That's why you're going to do that follow-up appointment with the shrink, McCabe. You need some more debriefing.”

The question was, McCabe almost said, whether debriefing would get the crazy idea that had just occurred to her out of her head.

 

36

 

Friday, November 8, 2019

McCabe had been cleared to return to regular duty.

She and Baxter had tied up the loose ends.

They had confirmed that Lisa Nichols was the “collector” who had contacted Vivian Jessup. On the day that Vivian Jessup was killed, Nichols had gone to New York with Ted Thornton and then taken a fast train back to Albany. She had made an appointment to meet Jessup, had shown up dressed as a man, killed Jessup, and driven her body to the ramp in one of Thornton's cars. And then she had taken another train back down to the City. She had told Thornton that she was spending the evening with a girlfriend.

The media frenzy over billionaire Ted Thornton's beautiful “killer blonde” fiancée had gone cosmic. The district attorney was under pressure to seek the maximum penalty for Lisa Nichols from the nebulous “public” who would determine his fate when he came up for reelection. On the presidential campaign trial, Howard Miller, never one to ignore an opportunity, had taken up the cry for “justice” for the victims whose blood had been spilled by an immoral woman.