Intent to Kill Read online

  “Can you call her?”

  Benjamin checked his watch. “It wouldn’t do any good. She’s in trial. So for now, I don’t see any reason to take up any more of your time,” he said as he started to rise. Then he sat back down. “But—by any chance, is your son at home?”

  “Yes,” said Paul. “He’s upstairs in his room.”

  “I have a few questions for him, too.”

  Rachel sat up, and Paul could almost see her mother-bear protective claws emerging. “What kind of questions?” she said.

  “Along the same lines I asked you.”

  “I’m sure Babes doesn’t know anything,” she said.

  Benjamin gave her a polite but firm smile.

  “If it’s all the same to you, ma’am, I’d like to hear it from his own mouth. It’s just me—I do things by the book.”

  Rachel matched his smile with a polite but firm one. “You obviously don’t understand. Babes—Daniel—has Asperger’s syndrome.”

  “So…is he deaf?”

  “No.”

  “Mute?”

  “No.”

  “Mentally incompetent?”

  “Not at all.”

  Benjamin shrugged. “Then what’s the problem?”

  Rachel was now at the edge of her seat, almost leaning over the coffee table. “The problem is that—”

  “There is no problem,” said Paul.

  Rachel raised a hand, blinking slowly to emphasize her annoyance at the interruption. When it was clear she had the floor, she continued. “Asperger’s syndrome is a pervasive development disorder that is often grouped under the unofficial term autism spectrum disorder. Daniel was not diagnosed until…”

  Blah, blah, blah. Paul Townsend had heard Rachel’s speech a thousand times, and he’d been tuning it out for as long as he could remember.

  “As a child with higher-than-average intelligence,” said Rachel, “he appeared to be progressing normally in terms of expressive speech and motor development: sitting, crawling, standing, walking. He was on schedule for basic self-help skills, toilet training, self-feeding, and manipulation of common objects.”

  Good Lord, the woman talks like a textbook.

  Paul longed for the fun and spontaneous Rachel who used to tell jokes and make him laugh. Not that they hadn’t enjoyed Babes. When their little boy stood up at his third birthday party and not only recited but spelled the names of all fifty states, Paul was the proud daddy. When Babes heard the story of the infamous Chicago “Black Sox” and transformed part of the Shoeless Joe Jackson dialogue—It ain’t so, Joe—into “Is too, Jane,” Paul laughed right along with everyone else. Paul even went out and bought baseball equipment. That didn’t fly. None of the plans Paul had for his son worked out. By elementary school it was obvious that something was different—really different—and that Babes was never going to change. Rachel changed. The life that Paul, Rachel, and Chelsea had known and hoped for was forever changed.

  “Babes!” Paul shouted.

  “What are you doing?” said Rachel. “I haven’t finished.”

  “Yes, you have,” said Paul. “Babes, come down here!”

  “Leave him be,” said Rachel.

  “If Detective Benjamin wants to talk to him, he can talk to him.”

  “What, Dad?” asked Babes. He was standing in the hallway, as if afraid to enter the room.

  “Come in here,” said Paul.

  Babes took a half step forward.

  “All the way in. Sit down.”

  Babes shuffled more than walked across the room, his head down and making eye contact with no one. He went to the armchair closest to his mother and almost slid into the sitting position, his posture perfectly erect, his knees together, the palms of his hands flat atop his thighs.

  “Babes, this is Detective Benjamin,” said Paul. “He has a few questions he’d like to ask you.”

  Babes was silent.

  Benjamin looked at Paul and said, “I hope this isn’t a problem, but I’d really prefer to talk to Babes one on one. Man to man, so to speak, just the two of us.”

  Rachel dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “Well, I’m afraid that just isn’t poss—”

  “It’s fine,” said Paul. “Rachel, let’s go. We’ll wait in the kitchen.” He rose, started out of the room, and then stopped. Rachel hadn’t moved.

  “Rachel, I said we’ll wait in the kitchen.”

  She breathed out her anger, then leaned toward Babes to pat the back of his hand. He withdrew, and she backed off, giving him only verbal support.

  “If you need me, sweetheart, I’ll be just a few feet away.”

  Rachel rose and followed Paul through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. He went to the counter and took a seat. Rachel stood at the door, leaving it open a crack, and watched her son.

  “You have always coddled him,” said Paul.

  “Shush. I’m trying to hear.”

  “Don’t shush me. Look at yourself. Do you think that’s good for Babes?”

  She shot him an angry look. “Don’t pretend to know what’s best for him. You don’t even know his doctors.”

  “How could I? How could anyone? Let me see, are you referring to his psychologist? His psychiatrist? His neurologist, neuropsychologist, psychotherapist? The family doctor? Or maybe you’re talking about the world of pediatrics, which I say he should have left behind when he turned eighteen. His developmental pediatrician, pediatric psychologist, pediatric psychiatrist, pediatric neurologist, general pediatrician? Which one do you mean, Rachel?”

  “Lots of young people continue to see their pediatric physicians into their twenties. The important thing was for Babes to find the right doctor.”

  “It was important for Chelsea to go to a good school, too. It was important for us to give her and Ryan a decent wedding. It was important to take a family vacation every now and then. But there wasn’t ten cents left for any of those things. I run a stinking hardware store, not a bank.”

  Rachel was still peering through the crack in the doorway, then looked at Paul. “A family does what it has to do.”

  “Yes, I agree. But you have always overdone it. Do you remember those business cards you printed up to hand out to people in restaurants? ‘My son has an autism-related disorder. Thank you for your patience.’ People thought you were nuts.”

  “I was just ahead of the times. I’ll have you know that some of the top experts recommend that parents have a card like that handy.”

  “Yes, to pass out after your child has an embarrassing meltdown in a public place. Not to hand out to everyone in the restaurant as you walk in. I swear, sometimes it seems like you prefer having a son with AS.”

  Rachel let the door swing closed. She turned slowly to face her husband, her expression stone cold. “You wish it had been him, don’t you.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you think Babes can sense it? If you could ask God to rewrite history, you’d have Him take Babes instead of Chelsea.”

  “Oh, please,” he said, his voice rising. “Don’t bring God into this.”

  “Mom!” Babes shouted from the room.

  “See, now you’ve upset him.”

  “Me? What did I do?”

  Rachel shoved the door open and dashed into the living room. Paul started after her, but then he stopped. He’d had enough of this.

  He paced angrily across the kitchen floor, not sure how to vent. That was a cruel thing for Rachel to have said—to suggest that he’d wish his own son into the grave. Wishing was for fools, anyway, at least when the wish was for something that could never come true. In that respect, Paul Townsend was as foolish as the next guy.

  He wished that Babes didn’t have Asperger’s.

  And more than anything, he wished that Chelsea were still alive.

  Paul grabbed his coat and went out the back door for the one thing that had become the hallmark of his marriage.

  Time alone.

  8

  AROUND ELEVEN-T
HIRTY RYAN EMERGED FROM THE BEDROOM and went out to grab the newspaper from the front step. He thumbed through the Herald in the open doorway. The Boston papers apparently hadn’t picked up Emma’s press release. He walked back inside to the computer in the kitchen and checked online. The Projo had the story on page 1, below the theoretical fold: NEW LIFE FOR INVESTIGATION INTO DEATH OF PAWSOX WIFE.

  Good job, Emma.

  Ryan was suddenly hungry, but not just for anything. The trials of the morning had him craving Juan in a Million, an unfussy Tex-Mex joint in Austin that was famous for its award-winning breakfast tacos. The key ingredients were open to debate—corn versus flour tortillas, whole versus refried beans, bacon versus chorizo, real cheese versus processed, potatoes or none—but one thing was for certain: breakfast tacos were the de rigueur morning-after grub at the University of Texas. The aftereffects of a sleeping pill weren’t technically a hangover, but they were a pretty fair excuse for something sinfully delicious.

  Ryan found one waiting for him in the refrigerator. Knowing he’d need one, Claricia had made it for him before taking Ainsley to school. Breakfast tacos weren’t even remotely Colombian cuisine, but Claricia was a fast learner and always eager to please. It was her way of letting him know that she wasn’t mad at him anymore.

  God bless you, Claricia.

  The phone rang as he popped his breakfast into the microwave. A quick check of the caller ID showed that his mother-in-law was not about to go away quietly. This time he answered.

  “Why weren’t you on the radio this morning?” she said.

  “I think I’ve got the flu.”

  Ryan expected a challenge to his obvious lie, but Chelsea’s mother had more important news: “A detective came to see us.”

  That seemed odd, given Emma’s sensitivity to the anniversary of Chelsea’s death last night. Sending a cop—a total stranger—the next morning didn’t seem like Emma.

  “What was his name?”

  “Lieutenant Keith Benjamin,” she said, clearly reading his name from a business card.

  Ryan had dealt with several detectives over the years relating to the accident, but the name Benjamin didn’t ring a bell.

  “What was the other guy’s name?”

  “What other guy?”

  “His partner.”

  “He came alone,” she said.

  That also seemed strange to Ryan, but only because it wasn’t the way they did it on Law & Order.

  “I didn’t like this,” said Rachel. “Emma should have at least called one of us to say that a detective was coming.”

  “You’re right. That isn’t like Emma.”

  “And he was so rude. He insisted on speaking to Babes alone. Naturally, Babe’s is all upset now. Paul’s angry. This family can’t operate like this.”

  “I understand. Let me give Emma a call and see what this is all about.”

  “It won’t do any good. Detective Benjamin said she’s in trial all day.”

  “How does he know that?”

  “I don’t know. Why wouldn’t he?”

  Ryan’s suspicions were growing, but he didn’t want to sound paranoid. “Hold on a second,” he said. “I’ll dial her on my cell now.”

  After three rings, Emma answered.

  “Emma, hi. It’s Ryan James. Did I get you at a bad time?”

  “No, this is fine.”

  “I thought you might be in trial.”

  “No, not today. I’m waiting on a jury verdict.”

  Lieutenant Benjamin clearly had bad info. “Hey, do you know anything about the detective from the Rhode Island Sheriff’s Department who visited Chelsea’s parents this morning?”

  “This morning?” she said, surprise in her voice. “No.”

  “I have Rachel on the phone now. She’s pretty upset.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. But this is complete news to me. The only detective work so far has been the follow up on the message that came with the flowers on Chelsea’s grave—which, by the way, Tony from Watertown denies any involvement with. But let’s stick with this for the moment. Did your mother-in-law give you the names of the detectives who came to see her?”

  “That’s another weird thing. There was just one guy. Lieutenant Benjamin.”

  “Benjamin?” she said. “Not anyone I know. Hold on a second, let me pull up my directory.”

  Ryan waited as she scrolled down her computer screen, muttering “Benjamin, Benjamin, Benjamin” into his ear.

  “Are you sure about the name?”

  “Hold on,” said Ryan. He double-checked with Rachel and then got back on the line with Emma.

  “Rachel tells me she’s reading straight from the business card he gave her—‘Lieutenant Keith Benjamin, Rhode Island Sheriff’s Department.’”

  There was silence.

  “Okay,” Emma said finally. “Here’s the thing: we don’t have a Lieutenant Benjamin.”

  9

  EMMA WAS AN HOUR CLOSER TO PAWTUCKET THAN RYAN WAS, SO she arrived while he was still on the road.

  Paul and Rachel Townsend had been married thirty years, and they still lived in the brownstone flat that Chelsea had grown up in. They were wearing sweaters—the chill in the air was a reminder that the official start of autumn was only days away—and were seated in patio chairs outside on the covered front porch. Babes was off by himself at a small round table in the corner of the porch. An open newspaper was spread out before him. His elbows were on the table, and his hands were in his hair, as if he were trying to pull the thoughts out of his head. Babes read his newspaper the way Emma studied her legal research. He didn’t look up, didn’t move a muscle as Paul and Rachel rose to greet Emma.

  Emma said, “Sorry to pull you out of your own house. A forensic team will be here shortly. We didn’t want you walking around touching things, possibly destroying fingerprints. I’m determined to find out who this impostor Lieutenant Benjamin was.”

  “This is really scary,” said Rachel.

  Paul took her hand. “It’s like I told you, honey. Probably just an overly ambitious reporter looking for a story.”

  Emma was about to tell him that she didn’t think so, but Paul was clearly just trying to put his wife at ease. It wasn’t working.

  “I have such a bad feeling about this,” said Rachel, shaking her head.

  Paul looked for another diversion.

  “Babes, say hello to Ms. Carlisle,” he said.

  Emma didn’t take it personally that Babes didn’t respond. She understood him better now. To see him laughing at his sister’s funeral had been a shock, but Rachel had pulled Emma aside to explain that Babes wasn’t cold and uncaring. “It’s not that Babes doesn’t feel at all,” she’d told Emma, “it’s that he feels too much. It’s confusing for him.” At first, Emma simply took Mrs. Townsend’s word for it. As the investigation wore on, Emma grew to believe that this mother was right about her son; Babes loved Chelsea with all his heart.

  “Oh, never mind,” said Paul.

  Rachel tried a sweeter tone. “Babes, Ms. Carlisle is here.”

  No answer. Emma guessed that he truly hadn’t heard his mother, though it had nothing to do with a hearing impairment. If Babes stared at the newspaper any harder, he might burn a hole in it.

  Emma said, “He’s quite the voracious reader.”

  “Yes, anything sports. He loves to collect information. That’s his AS.”

  Paul rose, suddenly annoyed. “I’m going to get a root beer. The good lieutenant didn’t go into the kitchen. Anybody want something?”

  “Don’t go through the living room,” said Rachel.

  “I’ll walk around back. Emma, something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Babes, you want a soder?”

  Again, no answer. Paul shook his head, climbed down the front steps, and headed around to the back of the house.

  “Paul’s a little out of sorts,” said Rachel, once he was out of earshot.

  “I understand. This
impostor in your house has us all concerned.”

  “Honestly, it started before that. Yesterday marked three years since Chelsea passed. The anniversaries don’t get any easier.”

  “I’m sure that it’s very difficult for everyone.”

  “But it’s even harder than you might imagine for Paul. From the day she was born, Chelsea was her daddy’s girl. That became even more true with Babes and his special needs. I had less and less time for Paul or Chelsea, which seemed to draw them closer to each other. No regrets. It’s just a fact.”

  Her concern for Paul and everyone else but herself was classic caregiver syndrome. Emma couldn’t help but notice how much Rachel had aged in the three years since her daughter’s death. Some of the lines on her face seemed carved in wax.

  “How is Babes holding up?”

  Rachel breathed in and out, as if taken by the size of the question. “It depends on which doctor you talk to. One thinks he’s taking on aspects of obsessive compulsive disorder.”

  “How so?”

  “He obsesses about keeping people safe. But if you talk to other doctors, they will say it’s not OCD, that it’s perseveration of thoughts.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Rachel glanced across the porch at her son. He was still devouring his newspaper. No way was he listening. “He can get stuck on a certain event or situation and be unable to let go. It was really bad right after Chelsea died. Getting Babes to ride in a car was virtually impossible. He walked or took the bus everywhere. Sometimes he walked a mile out of his way just to avoid crossing certain busy streets.”

  “Is that still the case?”

  “It’s not as bad. But in other ways, he’s worse. I’m sure you remember how he’s totally into anagrams, right?”

  “Yeah. Baseball, as I recall.”

  “His anagrams are less about sports these days. They’re more about danger and violence—particularly against women.”

  Emma’s gaze shifted toward Babes. He was still reading the same page of the newspaper, but his hands were out of his hair. He was squeezing a Koosh ball, one of those squishy stress relievers made of rubber.

  “That looks to be the sports page he’s reading now,” said Emma.