Sarah Armstrong: Singularity Part 2

The boy sized up Nelson and me one more time. Then, reluctantly, he turned and walked away. Moments pa.s.sed before any of us spoke. I was still lost in my own memories when Nelson asked Mrs. Lucas, "So, where were you this morning, about nine?"

"You dont think I could do such a monstrous thing?" she demanded, for the first time appearing worried. It must have suddenly dawned on her that we werent there offering our condolences. The woman looked appalled and at a loss for words, not a good turn of events. Unless Nelson backed off, I had no doubt that at any moment shed regain her composure and refuse to talk to us without her lawyer. From that point on, we were at the mercy of some well paid suit whose primary agenda would be to keep us away from his wealthy client.

Weary of Nelsons theatrics, I attempted damage control. "Please understand, Mrs. Lucas, that its nothing personal. In the beginning, we ask everyone even remotely involved in a case that question. What we really need from you are a few facts, to draw a picture of the days leading up to the murders. Lets start with where you were this morning."

"Well, Im happy to help. Edward and I have three children, after all. I do want you to find his killer," she said, regaining her former placid expression. "I was here, in my home. You can verify that with the maid, the cook, and about six friends. I hosted a meeting that lasted nearly all day. We were planning the fall ballet ball. It has a Venetian nights theme, rather difficult to pull off, I must admit, and Edward and I are..." She paused, hesitated, and then continued, "We were chairing. Thats why I called him this afternoon. I wanted to ask if that was a good idea, considering our marital situation."

"And you called the police ..."

"Because I couldnt find my husband," she said bluntly. "Edward is, was, always reachable. When he didnt answer his cell phone and no one in the office could find him, I knew something was wrong. My husband may sneak away for a...shall we call it a recreational break? But he runs a substantial business. He does not just disappear for hours without leaving a number."

"Why did you suggest the police check the beach house?" I pushed.

Priscilla Lucas sighed, creases tracing thin lines across her brow. "Edward is a creature of habit. His routines rarely vary. I know, Ive always known that he takes them there, his women-of-the-moment," she said, her voice smooth but unable to hide what must have been a long-lived anger.

"Did your husband have any enemies?" I asked.

"Nothing beyond the normal business rivalries."

"Was there any reason for you to fear hed been injured?"

"Just what Ive told you, that I couldnt find him," she said, losing patience. "It may be difficult to believe, but in all the years weve been married, this is the first time I havent been able to locate Edward for any substantial period of time. That and I had a feeling, call it a premonition, that something was wrong."

"Mrs. Lucas, does your husband own a gun?" I asked, wondering if she would admit knowing about the handgun at the beach house or have reason to deny it.

"Yes," she said, without hesitation. "Edward owns more than one. We argued about them often. Ive never liked guns. Ive always been afraid the children might find them. But Edward has a locked cabinet in our bedroom here at the house with two pistols, and he kept another at the beach house, in a box in the nightstand next to our bed. Why do you ask?"

"The murderer used your husbands gun to shoot him through the forehead," Nelson said, not even feigning sympathy.

"Oh," she said, stunned, the remaining color draining from her already China-doll face.

Before she could recover, Nelson shot out another question, "And where were you last night, Mrs. Lucas?"

"Last night?" she asked, abruptly looking away from us and staring at her hands, folded on her lap. They trembled slightly as she toyed with an impressive emerald-cut diamond solitaire. "Why should that be important? Edward and Ms. Knowles were murdered this morning."

"We have reasons," Nelson answered, smiling.

This time, I didnt interrupt. I wanted to hear her answer as much as Nelson did. Priscilla Lucas hesitated, obviously considering her response. For my liking, she paused too long, leading me to wonder why, unless she was trying to hide what wed been told via phone on the drive into Houston. Annmaries neighbor had IDed her photo. Mrs. Lucas was the woman arguing with Knowles the night before. The woman whod left in a huff.

"Last night I was out until about nine, and then I came home and discussed todays menu for the meeting with the cook. You can verify that with her, if you must," she said, defensively. "Edward was home, going over paperwork from the office when I got here. I didnt feel well. I had an excruciating headache. I went straight to bed."

"Where were you earlier in the evening?" I prodded, needing to pin her down for the period of time the two women were heard arguing. "Say, between seven and eight."

For a moment, the room felt uncomfortably silent. Priscilla Lucas hesitated, once or twice appearing to be ready to talk. Finally, she rose to her feet, her smile as painted on as the hand-stenciled ivy covering the sunroom walls.

"Thats something Im not free to discuss." I wasnt surprised when she said, "This interview is over."

"Mrs. Lucas," I said. "Detective Nelson and I know you were at Annmaries condo arguing with her last night. You were seen leaving by a neighbor. What you need to tell us is why you were there. What was the quarrel about?"

Beautiful, cultivated Priscilla Lucas, mainstay of Houston society and a woman used to controlling not only her emotions but, by virtue of her vast fortune, the actions of others, frowned, and I noted what might have been her first tears of the day collecting in her eyes. Were they for her dead husband or for herself?

"Lieutenant Armstrong and Detective Nelson," she said, her voice stoic and exuding perfect politeness. "Please leave, and direct all further inquiries to my lawyers. Right now, my children are in the other room. My father and the therapist will be here soon, and I need to tell my children their father is dead."

Five.

Detective O. L. Nelson and I left the Lucas house and parted for the night. Wed cover our phones for the weekend, but for now the uniformed officers, the lab techs, and the coroner were in charge, processing the evidence in hopes of finding leads. It was late when I arrived home, and the house was dark and quiet, everyone asleep. In bed, I mentally retraced my steps, back to the beach house and over and over again through the bedroom door to the foot of the canopied bed, where in my half-dreams the two bodies remained frozen in time.

I thought of the Lucas children and the conversation that must have taken place after we left: their mother, grandfather, and a therapist attempting to explain the incomprehensible, that their father was brutally murdered, that they would never see him again.

About three that Sat.u.r.day morning, I gave up on sleep and went to my workshop over the garage. In college, I had a double major, psychology and art. After graduation, I thought I would use art to work with abused children. Obviously my life took a detour. These days my psychology training is an a.s.set in my profiling. As for my art? Well, that, too, has taken a rather dark turn.

In the workshop, I grabbed a brown cardboard box off the shelf. It was from the Houston M.E.s office, and inside was a human skull mounted on a st.u.r.dy wooden base.

I admit its an unusual way to relax, but in my off time, especially when Im mulling over a case, I do facial reconstructions on unidentified remains. Maybe its not as odd as it sounds. Ive always found sculpting in clay soothing, and unlike live models, the dead dont complain that I made them look ten pounds heavier or didnt get their smile right.

A woman scavenging dried weeds to make wreaths had discovered the remains on the bank of a Houston bayou. Insects, heat, and humidity had eaten away the tissue, muscle, and flesh. Animals had scattered most of the bones. Little was found, only the skull, one thigh bone, and the delicate bones of an arm and hand. From the still-forming joint cartilage, the medical examiner estimated that the bones were of a small child, probably not older than five. Even with an entire skeleton, its difficult to determine s.e.x at such a young age. One worn Superman tennis shoe found near the body initially suggested we were viewing the remains of a boy, an a.s.sumption that was later confirmed with DNA.

A week earlier Id wired together a three-inch fracture, a patch of skull at the hairline nearly crushed by a powerful blow, the presumed cause of death. Id then cut twenty-one rubber stubs to match the depth of the boys missing skin and muscle, a thicker stub for the cheeks, thinner on the forehead and the chin. Positioned on the skull, the stubs would serve as guides to the depth of the clay. Along with the boys DNA, the generous spread of his nasal aperture and the slight elongation of his lower face suggested he was black, leading me to choose clay the color of dry coffee grounds and two plastic eyes with irises so dark they swallowed up the pupils.

Throughout the night, I lost myself in my work, enjoying the quiet and the feel of the clay in my hands as I carefully coated the skull. Well after sunrise, seven hours after Id started, I was finis.h.i.+ng up, using a small trowel to reshape his lips. The boy had a wide mouth, and I fas.h.i.+oned a mischievous grin and a small nose wrinkled in laughter. I sized up my handiwork: full cheeks, thick eyebrows, and a crooked front tooth jutting out from under a frozen smile. He was a good-looking kid.

"Ill call you Ben," I said, wis.h.i.+ng the boy could tell me who he was and who had murdered him.

How easily life ends, I thought. If nothing else, the last year had taught me that.

"Mom?"

I didnt respond.

"Mom," she said again, only louder. "Gram says its time to get ready or itll be too late to go to the museum." Peering in the workshop door, my eleven-year-old was scowling, a look Maggie reserves for me, I know, when Im not being quite the perfect mother, which is often.

"Magpie, tell Gram Ill be right there."

"You better hurry," she warned. "Grams pretty mad."

"Hmmm," I said. I walked over and planted a wet kiss on the top of her head, thinking of the Lucas boy from the night before. Then I held her tight.

"Whats wrong?" she asked, squirming.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," I said, as she pushed away. "But I guess if Grams upset, Id better be on my best behavior?"

"Shes baking," Maggie said, imparting what we both knew was a serious clue to my mothers state of mind.

"Uh, oh, thats not good." I chuckled. "Tell her I promise that Ill be right there."

"Shes not going to believe me," Maggie said, shuffling off.

Mom had the right to be miffed. Id promised I wouldnt let work interfere, that wed make it to the museum before lunch. I knew I should go. But I hesitated. After all, Mom was already in a slow burn. Why not?

There was no predicting when Id have time again, so I grabbed my digital camera and snapped four photos of Bens reconstructed face, and then downloaded the photos onto the computer screen. Within a few minutes, Id e-mailed the lot, along with a summary Id already prepared describing where the skull had been found, to Houston P.D.s missing persons, my office at the Texas Department of Public Safety, and to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children in Virginia. I had no illusions. It was a long shot. No matter how many post-office walls this kids face was displayed on, there was little hope anyone would identify the child.

Finished, I put Ben back in the box, then hurried downstairs. I walked through the garage, past Moms beat-up Ford pickup, feeling vaguely uneasy. Maggies fearfulness did that to me. For the first ten years of her life as I sculpted faces on skulls, Maggie played at my feet, claiming leftover tidbits of clay to mold into flowers. Back then, sudden, violent death was something that happened only to strangers.

Then Bill died last spring, and now Maggie wont even walk through my workshop door.

Knowing Mom would be on the warpath, I hurried through the garage door and past the corral, where Emma Lou, Maggies three-year-old, black-and-white pinto, slurped from her water trough. The filly rolled her head, eyeing me. She looked hungry. The half-dozen horses Mom boards were across the yard in the old barn and had already eaten their morning oats and hay. Mom makes sure they have an early breakfast. But Emma Lou is Maggies job, and there wasnt a feed sack in sight. The horse whinnied.

"Emma Lou," I grumbled. "Im already running late, girl."

The horse shook its head, its snow-white mane flying, and I thought about shouting for Maggie. Instead, I hurried back into the garage and grabbed a bucket, then dunked it in the yellow oat can. By the time Id reached the back door, Emma Lou was happily munching.

The truth is that the Rocking Horse Stables has seen better days. The gra.s.s and shrubs are overgrown, and theres no way the place will ever make Ranchers Digest. Its a hodgepodge of additions tacked onto a dilapidated two-bedroom cabin. The whole things covered with rough cedar seasoned battles.h.i.+p-gray. But its home, and its convenient, on the outskirts of Tomball, a once Podunk town thats in the process of being swallowed up by the city. Mom and Dad bought the place when I was a kid, and I grew up here, riding horses and raising 4-H hogs. After Bill died, I brought Maggie and moved back in. Pop had pa.s.sed on years ago, and Mom was alone. The place is only half an hours drive from my Houston office, and I figured we could all do with having more family around.

"Well, you took your time," Mom chastised when I swung open the screen door. Id been able to smell the cookies from the porch, sheets of saucer-sized oatmeal-raisin cookies that covered the counter.

"I had something I had to finish," I said, reaching for one. "And I fed Emma Lou."

"I would have done it," Maggie protested.

"Magpie, its after ten," I said. "You need to-"

"That horse has to be starved by now," Mom scolded, and Maggie groaned.

Moms bushy white hair was pulled back in a scarf. Dressed in a pink sweatsuit with hand-painted tulips on the front, she looked the consummate grandmother, which she is. Actually, shes a professional. Along with running the ranch, Mom has a second business and a second name, Mother Adams, as in "Mother Adamss Cheesecakes." She sells her baked goods to caterers and the citys fancy restaurants. Her real name is Nora Potts. "Mother Pottss Cheesecakes" just didnt have the same panache.

At five-foot-six, I weigh a hundred and thirty pounds, not bad, but Ive got the hips of a woman ten pounds heavier, a deformity I blame on my mothers talent with an oven. Still, since Mom went pro, she usually only bakes professionally. When she takes out the mixer for Maggie and me, its not good news.

"Sarah Jane Potts," Mom chirped, clicking her teeth, a habit that since childhood has crawled up my spine like spider feet. "Youve kept us waiting all morning. You get maybe two weekends off a month. Couldnt you save those days for family?"

"Armstrong," I reminded her, not bothering to again justify my tardiness. Nothing changes. Even if Im a cop with a gun and a badge out on the street, in Moms kitchen Im still a kid. "The names Sarah Armstrong."

"Gram, you know that," Maggie agreed, dipping a still-warm cookie in a tumbler of milk. "Its Armstrong just like mine and Dads. Why do you always do that?"

"Well, of course it is, baby," Mom said, wrapping her arms around Maggies shoulders. "Grams old. Sometimes she just forgets."

I didnt buy a word of it. Mom loved Bill, but she blamed him for luring me into law enforcement. A daughter who investigates brutal murders doesnt give a sixty-six-year-old woman much peace of mind.

Looking back, Bill Armstrong had been the center of my life for nearly two decades. We met in college, and married the year I graduated. He was a third-generation Texas Ranger, and he coaxed me away from my textbooks with tales hed heard as a kid, stories about rangers with colorful nicknames like Big Foot, Three-legged Williamson, Lonewolf, and Senior Ranger Captain John "Rip" Ford, who earned his middle name during Texa.s.s b.l.o.o.d.y war for independence from Mexico. At first, Ford signed condolence letters to the families of fallen soldiers "rest in peace." Weighed down by the sheer volume, he settled on RIR Those were the bad old days, when rangers ran roughshod over Texas, capturing train and bank robbers, simmering down blood feuds, corralling cattle thieves and rum runners, and holding off lynch mobs.

Personally, Ive never been drawn to sepia photos of sour-looking men in handlebar mustaches and cowboy hats. I am, however, fascinated by the human mind. As soon as Bill brought his first case file home, I was hooked.

"So," I asked, grabbing one of Maggies ponytail ties off the counter and looping it around a fistful of my dark straw-colored hair. "You two ready? I am. Just need to grab my purse and the car keys."

"You bet," Maggie said, her face breaking into an ear-to-ear grin. "And Strings is, too. We can pick him up on the way."

"Ah, thats my girl," I said. "Then, Magpie, were off."

I planted the second kiss of the morning on her head, thinking how with her s.h.a.ggy black hair and hazel eyes she looked like Bill. She even had his build, lean, and with adolescence shed developed that awkward lankiness kids share with puppies, the stage when their arms and legs appear only vaguely connected to their bodies.

At that point, I noticed Mom staring into the oven.

"Well, just a minute," she said, her face flushed red from the heat. "I want to finish the last of this cookie dough. One more batch, and I can take off this ap.r.o.n and well go."

I gave her one of my quizzical looks, the kind I use when Ive backed a suspect into a corner. "Guess Im not the one holding up the works then, Mom. It looks like you are!"

Mom frowned and looked fl.u.s.tered. For a moment she was at a loss for words. "Sarah, just get your coat." She sighed, realizing shed lost. "Ill put the dough in the fridge for later."

"I dont think dinosaurs are really extinct," Strings said, with his usual certainty. "Theyre alive on some island somewhere, not grown outta that DNA stuff like in Jura.s.sic Park, but just alive, 'cause they never all died."

Maggies best friend, Strings, aka Frederick Allen Jacobs, Jr., was four-feet-ten-inches tall and bespectacled in wire-rimmed gla.s.ses. Stringss dad, the Reverend Fred, preaches at Mount Zion African, an old, steepled church tucked into the woods not far from the ranch. The church and the shrinking community surrounding it are all thats left of Libertyville, a once thriving black settlement that dates back to Reconstruction. On Sunday mornings, Alba Jacobs, a tall, elegant woman, wearing bright caftans with matching turbans, leads the choir, and even Mom has admitted that Alba makes the best b.u.t.termilk pie in the county. Gifted with his dads flair and his mothers love of music, Strings plays a mean acoustic guitar, which explains his nickname.

All four of us, Maggie, Strings, Mom, and I, had just spent three hours touring the Natural Science Museum, especially a visiting dinosaur exhibit, and sat resting our feet and eating McDonalds hamburgers in the cafeteria. Half the display detailed the dinosaurs extinction. It was vintage Strings to now insist he knew better.

"Thats really dumb," countered Maggie, ketchup dripping from her bun. "How come no ones seen them?"

"'Cause theyre in a place that n.o.bodys been, thats why. There are places like that, islands, arent there Mrs. A?" he said, nodding, apparently in hopes that Id nod along. "I watched a show like that on the Discovery Channel with my dad, about how some fish everyone thought was extinct wasnt. Some guy caught one."

"Now, thats really dumb." Maggie frowned, pointing a french fry like a bony finger just inches from her friends face. "Fish are small. Dinosaurs are huge. How would the whole world miss seeing them?"

"Margaret, it isnt nice to say Frederick is dumb," scolded my mother.

"Actually, someone did catch a fish that was supposed to be extinct," I said, rewarded by a grin so wide it nearly split Stringss face in two.

"Okay, a fish I understand. Like I said. But dinosaurs?" my ever-pragmatic daughter challenged.

"Well," I admitted. "Maybe Strings isnt right about the dinosaurs, but..."

"Geez, Mrs. A," Strings protested. "How can anyone know for sure? I mean, really know for sure? In Africa, there are still whole tribes who have never seen a white man."

"Strings does have a point, Maggie," I said, to which my daughter and my mother shook their heads in unison, as if certain they were dealing with the reality challenged.

At home, I checked in with the office. No news on the Lucas case. It was a cool spring late-afternoon, so I moved Maggies telescope out of the way, the one Bill and I bought her the Christmas before he died, and Mom and I plunked down in the porch rockers to watch Maggie and Strings in the corral with Emma Lou. The air smelled sweet, filled with the heavy scent of the yellow jasmine climbing the porch railing. Maggie wielded a brush on one side of the filly, working on her coat, while on the other side Strings used his fingers to detangle her mane. Tied to a post, Emma Lou s.h.i.+fted back and forth, shuffling left and right, while the kids stepped gingerly to stay out of her way. It looked like a dance of sorts, the horse in the lead.

"I miss your father and Bill," Mom said, suddenly melancholy. "How they would love to see Maggie as she is now, growing up so fast."

Caught up in the moment, the two kids nearby jabbering about Stringss dinosaur theory, the peaceful country evening, I was surrounded by the warmth of family. Yet without Bill, everything felt odd, more remote. Even home.

"Yeah" was all I could muster.

As they had throughout the past year, the tears quickly welled in my eyes. Any thought of Bills death did that to me. So I did the only thing I could, and I tried not to think of it. Still, on this particular afternoon, it was there, so close I could touch it, and too painful to deny. There was something Id been wondering. "Mom, do you think theres a heaven?"