All the Deadly Lies Read online

  “I’m amazed.” Sarcasm drenched Louie’s words. “Some people don’t follow the law and register them?”

  “Don’t bust my chops.”

  “You looked like you needed them busted,” Louie said. “You want to talk.”

  “Yes, about our cases, nothing else.”

  “Don’t be grouchy.”

  “Louie, please. I’m up to my neck in departmental reports. I still have to post the duty roster for next week. We have several active cases in need of leg work and no time to work Eva’s case. Right now, I need you to back off.”

  Louie switched gears. “Fine. On Lola Adams’s cell for Friday, April sixteenth, she had thirty-eight calls going out, fifty-two in, including fifteen voice messages. This woman lived on the phone. Most of these have 904, 305, or 941 area codes. I need to look those up. There are a few Connecticut codes in there also.”

  He reached for the phone book, thumbed through until he found the national area codes directory. “Okay, area code 904 is in the Jacksonville area, 305 is Miami’s code, 941 is Ft Myers, on the west coast. She also sent a boatload of text messages.”

  “They live in Neptune Beach?” Jake verified.

  “Yes, north of Jacksonville.”

  “Let’s get the listing for all her numbers and see who she’s been talking to.”

  “Got something there?”

  “A hunch, nothing more, how long did she talk to her friend in Miami?”

  Louie looked at the bill again. “She was on for over an hour.”

  “Well, she said she hadn’t heard from her for a year. I guess they had a lot of catching up to do. Did Lola’s credit card statements come in yet?”

  “I haven’t seen them. Was Lola married before?” Louie asked.

  “Good question.” It was one that had slipped Jake’s mind.

  An hour later, Louie looked up, frustrated. Not one number on Lola’s bill matched Chelsea’s cell, work, or home number. Neither he nor Jake believed in coincidence. If Lola visited Connecticut on April sixteenth, she either killed Chelsea or had set it up.

  * * * *

  Wednesday morning the DNA report came in along with some of the lab reports. All the blood on Chelsea belonged to Chelsea. The good news—there was no sexual assault. The bad news, evidence-wise—there was no sexual assault. Not one drop of body fluid was left behind to analyze. She hadn’t scratched her assailant. No fibers or skin were found under her nails. The minute samples of hair and saliva found on the rug in the trunk of the car where she had been discovered turned out to be a bust. There were no matches in the database on the samples. Around midmorning, Jake sat back in his chair, put his feet up on his desk, and closed his eyes. He couldn’t think of anyone else since he’d met Mia. Smart. Funny. Sexy. God, he wanted to explore every inch of her. Would he ever get the chance? Chloe was a problem, though he needed to be honest with himself, it was the job that turned off most women. Others pursued the uniform, not the man. He didn’t know if the interrupted dinner on Monday night had put Mia off or if Chloe had. They’d talk on Thursday night, try to iron things out, but he wanted to see her sooner. No, he’d let her make the next move. For the rest of the day he processed paper.

  Chapter 12

  Apprehension kicked right in when he woke on Thursday morning. He couldn’t wait to see her tonight but he needed to put it away for the day and concentrate on work. I’ll go nuts if I don’t get this out of my mind today.

  Before he went into the station, he decided to open another folder in the storage boxes pertaining to Eva’s case. Jake studied the lab reports. Doctor Jerome had been thorough. Each bruise, cut, and scrape was detailed. Semen collected had been placed in cold storage. Jerome had noted that he expected that new testing might be able to make a match to DNA on a suspect in the future. He’d been right about the new technology—but now would it exonerate Spaulding and raise more questions than it answered? His cell rang.

  “Are you home?” Louie asked, with no greeting.

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you give me a lift to the station? Sophia needs the car today to take the dog to the vet.”

  He looked at his watch. Oh well, it’s time to go to work. He’d have to let the information on Eva’s file stew in his brain until tonight.

  Louie was ready ten minutes later when Jake pulled up in front of his house. “What’s wrong with Sophia’s car?” Jake asked as Louie climbed in.

  “She doesn’t want the dog in her car—she just had it detailed. Houston sometimes gets car sick. Plus we dropped her car at the garage last night for a brake job.”

  “What happens if the dog gets sick in your car?”

  Louie laughed. “I clean it up.”

  * * * *

  A little after seven AM, he turned on his computer and settled into his chair with a cup of coffee. Jake used the quiet time before the rest of his detectives arrived to review the Adams case and the new cases his team had caught yesterday. He and Louie had attended the service for Chelsea Adams yesterday. It had ripped at his heart, watching those two young people say good-bye to their mother on the cold, gray, rainy day.

  A large crowd had gathered to pay its respects. No one in the group of mourners popped out, screaming ‘I did it.’ All in attendance seemed to be genuinely grieving. Burke stood in the background recording the burial, the attendees, and all cars and corresponding license plate numbers. Their next task would be the identifying everyone there. Maybe he’d delegate the job to Louie, have him set up interviews with anyone they hadn’t talked to already.

  He’d give the Adams kids a couple more days before he asked about Lola. Today, they were going deeper into Lola’s life, her loves, her neighbors, her coworkers. Though progressing, he felt time slipping away—it had been a couple of weeks since they found the body. The evidence hadn’t produced one solid suspect. Jake knew in his gut who did it but without evidence he couldn’t get an arrest.

  He’d find it. More than anything, he wanted to close the case for Chelsea’s children. Nothing else in life made him feel more like a failure than a cold case. They creep into his every waking hour. None more so than Eva’s case.

  Without warning, he flashed back to a time on the beach in Rhode Island.

  Eva scooped up a full bucket of water and charged at him with a vengeance right after he’d thrown her into the water. He laughed like a loon. They couldn’t have been more than eleven and twelve years old. He let her catch him and dump her bucket of water over his head before he picked her up again and tossed her back in the water. His parents watched with amusement.

  He tried to imagine the woman Eva would have grown into. Would she have chosen a career, or motherhood, or both? Would he have been an uncle by now? Would he have taken the sports scholarship? Played pro ball? Pursued a different career?

  Jake understood he couldn’t change the past. But his anger—always right below the surface—threatened to boil over. He could never picture Eva past the age of fifteen no matter how hard he tried.

  * * * *

  He looked up as Louie walked into his office and then stopped dead in his tracks. It was always awkward to be caught in these moments. Knuckling away a tear, he watched Louie try to back out of his office.

  “You need something, Louie?”

  “No, I wanted to let you know I found the addresses for Lola Adams’s parents.” Neither of them knew how to handle it when Jake slipped into the past. It didn’t happen often.

  “Give me ten minutes. And close the door on your way out?”

  “Jake, if you—”

  Jake cut him off. “I’m fine. Give me a minute here. Can you close the door behind you?”

  He paced his office. How could he have let the beast out at work? If anyone other than Louie had walked in…he didn’t know how he would have lived down the embarrassment. Most times he could control his thoughts, his e
motions…at other times…they snuck up, whacked him in the balls, and showed no mercy. Going through the files again had brought it to the surface. He opened his office door and looked around. He didn’t want to run into anyone else until he got himself under control. In the men’s room, he stared at himself in the mirror before throwing cold water on his face. Let it go, he willed. On his way back to his office, he motioned for Louie to join him.

  The minute Louie walked in, Jake started in on the evidence, outlining their time schedule for the day. “Any thoughts on the subject?” Jake asked, not giving Louie the chance to get personal.

  “No. I called Lola’s mother. Mrs. Gromme will see us in an hour. I’m still trying to get in touch with her father. Her parents are divorced, though they live right down the road from each other.”

  “I want to give the Adams kids a break. I’ll touch base with them on Friday, unless they call us first. Do you have your report ready? I need to send both of ours together to the captain.”

  “No. I’m almost done. Give me another half hour,” Louie said, always the perfectionist. It drove Jake nuts.

  “I’m sure it’s perfect, finish it up. Let me know when you’re nominated for a Pulitzer.”

  “You’re a funny guy, Jake. I like my reports to be exact.”

  “They always are.” Jake buried himself in his own statement.

  * * * *

  Interstate 84, jammed with cars, trucks, and construction this time of day, slowed them to a crawl. After the long winter, Jake put his windows down to suck up the warm air. The noise from the construction took the pleasure out of it though. He shut the windows and put the air conditioner on. For as long as Jake could remember, this road had been under construction. It had become a longstanding joke. Another twenty minutes passed before he could make his way off the next exit where he switched to the backroads to make up for time lost.

  Jake listened in while Louie called and left a message for Mrs. Gromme explaining why they’d be late for the appointment.

  Not bad, Jake thought as they arrived at Mrs. Gromme’s door only twenty minutes late. When Mrs. Gromme answered the door, Jake noted the resemblance between mother and daughter from the photos he’d seen of Lola. Lucy Gromme stood five-three, weighed about one twenty. Her bleached-blond hair appeared stiff as a helmet. Stuck in the seventies, she’d covered her eyes in thick, electric-blue eyeshadow, drawing attention to the deep lines around each one. She spoke in the hard, scratchy voice of a smoker. Jake put her around sixty, though she looked more like seventy.

  “Show me your badges,” Mrs. Gromme said as she reached out her creped hand. Jake kept hold of his badge as he held it up. Louie did the same.

  “Mrs. Gromme,” Jake said, looking around the apartment. The outside door opened into a mini foyer that preceded the living room. An umbrella stand stood off to the right, next to it a tray filled with shoes.

  “Wipe your feet before you come in. I don’t want my house messed up.”

  Jake scoped out the rest of the apartment while he stood in the doorway and wiped his feet on the rug. Louie did the same. Mrs. Gromme led them into the living room. On their way, they passed an efficiency kitchen on the left. Though the place was meticulous, it stank of stale smoke. A short overstuffed green floral sofa, a coffee table, one end table that sat at the right side of the couch, and an old recliner covered with a multicolored throw filled the room. The recliner had its own high-top table by its side, with a cigarette burning in the ashtray. In front of the sofa, a forty-two inch television tuned to a soap opera sat on a claw-foot drop-leaf table, offset with a fresh flower arrangement. Cold, like the woman, Jake thought. No pictures or knickknacks. An open door led into the bedroom off the living room. He didn’t see a bath. He assumed it was in the bedroom. She stared at both their feet.

  “Have a seat and tell me why you’re here,” she said. No niceties, no offer of a beverage.

  “My partner, Detective Romanelli, and I are working the murder case of Chelsea Adams.”

  “So, because my daughter married her loser of an ex, you’re here to accuse her? If you are, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Mrs. Gromme said in her gruff voice.

  “It’s standard procedure to interview everyone who knew, or had knowledge of, the victim, Mrs. Gromme. We’re not pointing any fingers at anyone at this time.” Jake kept his voice neutral.

  “You know how to do the dance, don’t you, Lieutenant?” she asked, putting up a gnarled hand to stop his reply. “Ask your questions.” She stared him down.

  Jake respected her more for her directness.

  “Your daughter Lola visited Connecticut the weekend of April sixteenth. Did she visit you?” Jake asked.

  “No, she didn’t.” A frown dug deeper lines into her already wrinkled forehead. Hurt flashed across her face before she locked it down. Lola Adams had wounded her mother by not calling or visiting.

  “Do you have a cell phone, Mrs. Gromme?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you call her husband a loser?” Louie asked.

  “Because it’s what he is. She was stupid to marry a guy old enough to be her father.”

  “‘Because he is’ doesn’t answer the question,” Jake said.

  “The man screwed around on his wife. A loser,” she repeated.

  “Wasn’t your daughter also married at the time she started dating Adams? You don’t put any of the blame on her for dating a married man?” Louie asked.

  “A typical question from a man. It’s always the woman’s fault,” she said with disgust.

  “No, ma’am, I think it’s both of their faults,” Louie said.

  Silence ensued as she eyed Louie. After a minute or two, she said, “I guess you’re right. You can’t be looking at Lola for this. My girl wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “We’re looking at everyone right now, Mrs. Gromme. Does Lola keep in touch with her ex-husband?” Jake asked. He and Louie alternated asking the questions. Mrs. Gromme needed to be shaken up. “I don’t think they kept in touch. She pissed him off when she dated the old guy. His ego couldn’t take it.”

  From his take, Mrs. Gromme didn’t like the first one any better than the second. “Having one’s wife date another man would be reason enough to be pissed off. What’s his name, Mrs. Gromme?” Jake asked again.

  “Nick Pilarski.”

  “Does he live in town?” Louie asked.

  “Yes, he does, in their old apartment. He lives by the post office on Marion Road, in an apartment over the deli. He’s listed in the phone book.” She didn’t offer up Pilarski’s number. Jake was sure she had it too.

  “Can you think of anyone else she might have visited when she flew in?”

  “I can’t think of anyone. You’d think she’d have learned. She dates losers like her father—no good, skirt-chasing, gambling bums. Why she keeps going for the same type, I don’t understand.” She stared out her window.

  “Okay, one last question. Where were you on April sixteenth?” Jake asked.

  “You’re kidding, right?” she asked, looking from one to the other. “I was right here, where I am every night, alone.” She lit another cigarette, blowing smoke in Jake’s direction.

  “No one can verify your whereabouts?” Louie asked.

  “No, but you can ask my nosy neighbors. Maybe one of them was spying on me.”

  Jake let her answer hang in the air, stared for a second or two, then stood. They weren’t going to get anything else out of this one. “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Gromme.”

  Outside, Jake asked, “What’s your take, Louie?”

  “I thought we’d need a cast-iron cup to protect the jewels. She doesn’t like men.”

  “You got that right. Do you think she’s telling the truth about her daughter not visiting?” Jake unlocked the car, folded his six-foot frame into the department-issued midsize car. “Who�
�s closer, the father or the ex?”

  “The father’s right down the street here, on Main. It’s number thirty-four. We’ll hit the ex on the way back to the station. If he lives near the post office then he’ll be at the bottom of Southington Mountain,” Louie said. “And to answer your question, I think she was.”

  Jake drove down Main Street.

  The father lived in an old, run-down building. According to the mailboxes, four families or individuals lived there. After ringing the doorbell, they waited a solid five minutes until Jerry Gromme answered the door and graced them with his presence.

  Jerry sported a day-old beard, thin, dirty, straggly hair, and a pointed nose, which reminded Jake of a bird’s beak. Gromme’s wife-beater T-shirt showed off thin, boney arms with the flesh flapping in the wind. He reeked of cigarettes. Jake moved back, bumping into Louie to avoid the guy’s foul breath. It smelled like the city dump on a hot summer day.

  “Mr. Gromme, I’m Lieutenant Carrington and this is Detective Romanelli. Can we come in?” he said, staying back.

  “Sure. The name’s Jerry. I’m up on the third floor. We’ll have to walk, there’s no elevator.”

  Where the ex-wife’s apartment was immaculate, Jerry’s resembled a pig sty. And Jake thought this comparison insulted every pig alive.

  Jerry pushed the racing forms off the couch to make room for them to sit.

  “I told the other detective on the phone I don’t see how I can help you. I haven’t heard from Lola since her wedding. My daughter only contacts me when she wants something.” He held up his hand and rubbed his fingers together—the universal sign for money.

  “Lola visited Connecticut on April sixteenth. She didn’t visit you, or even call?” Louie said.

  “No, I told you, we’re not close. Her witch of a mother always put me down in front of her.”

  “You two didn’t get along?” Louie asked.

  “You assume right. If you met Mrs. Gromme…” Jerry left it at that.