Reign of fear, p.28
Reign of Fear, page 28
Turning to the reporter outside a luxury apartment complex in Bedford, with the flashing lights of police cruisers in the background, the news anchor asked for more details.
The reporter said, “The victim, who moved to the States from England two months ago was found shot to death in her apartment. Police refuse to disclose her identity until the next of kin has been notified. Bedford police is actively investigating the death and so far have no leads or motive for the killing.”
Henry’s mind drifted back to their second meeting at a café in Bedford.
“I don’t know the real reason you want all this background information on this couple, but as someone who spent fifteen years plus in law enforcement, I can tell when something doesn’t smell right.”
It was a bold move for him to speak to a client that way, a client who had been paying him a fortune for his services.
“I’m not paying you to assess my motives,” Kristina had snapped. “If this assignment is too difficult for you, I can find someone else to get the job done without offering their unsolicited opinions.”
Henry held up both hands to indicate he meant no harm. “I’m giving you the benefit of my experience,” he said. “It’s why you hired me. Sometimes it’s best to leave well enough alone. Digging into someone’s life can have unintended consequences. I’ve seen the damage it can cause.”
She was not amused by his honesty. “Thanks for the unwanted advice, but I know what I’m doing.”
What Kristina didn’t know was that Henry had done some digging of his own. When she asked him to have Abbie Rambally followed, he thought it was an odd request but wanted to see where things would lead.
Once he provided Kristina with the photos of Abbie and Christian Wheeler together at the park, she was delighted. Henry figured Kristina wanted evidence to bust up the Rambally marriage, and although that was a rotten thing to do in his humble opinion, he didn’t call her out.
When Kristina circled back to the issue of court transcripts, Henry got really worried. “Can you use your contacts in the legal community to gain access to the trial transcripts for Brynn Rossdale Harper?” she had asked.
“Why? I already told you they’re sealed.”
“I know what you told me,” she responded frostily. “I need to know what went on at that trial. If you are unable or unwilling to carry out the assignment, I’ll find someone who can.”
Henry couldn’t resist trying to talk her out of whatever she was planning one more time. He knew the consequences would be disastrous.
“All I’m saying is one doesn’t need to be a detective to know that you came to Boston with an agenda, a mission that involves Dr. Rambally and his wife. I’ve seen a lot of things in my day, Kristina. My gut tells me you’re playing with fire.”
What a waste, Henry thought as he returned his attention to the news story.
“Residents of this luxury complex are beyond shocked that a crime of this magnitude happened in their neighborhood,” the reporter continued.
Cut to residents being interviewed.
“That kind of stuff just doesn’t happen here.”
“This is a nice neighborhood. Everyone in this complex is friendly, and security is top-notch. Just goes to show nowhere is safe.”
“I hope the police catch the killer soon. Such a tragedy for that young lady and her family. God rest her soul.”
Henry flopped down on his living room sofa. Could he have done more to stop Kristina before she reached the point of no return? He had stopped a countless number of individuals from doing things that could land them in prison or worse during his days with the Boston PD.
How soon would the investigation into her death end up at his front door? The police detectives assigned to the case would no doubt discover Kristina had hired him to look into the Ramballys. They would want to know why.
Kristina was determined, and no amount of reasoning or warning would deter her. Unbeknownst to Kristina, Henry had gone so far as to use his contacts in the legal community to locate a juror from Brynn’s kidnapping trial who might be willing to talk to him.
Alice Holt, a retired high school principal, said she would never forget that trial as long as she lived.
“That poor woman, Abbie Rambally, Lucas’s mother. Reliving the horror of what that monster Zach Rossdale did to her, having to explain to her son why Brynn kidnapped him, but she couldn’t tell him the whole truth.”
Tears had sprung to Alice’s eyes as she recalled the testimony. “No mother should have to explain to a child that they only exist because of such a heinous crime.
“He wanted to kill his own son,” Alice had continued, shaking her head in disbelief. “That’s what Zach Rossdale sent Brynn and Brian Rogers to do. No one on that jury shed any tears when they heard Zach died before the trial had even begun.”
Henry popped up into a sitting position. A thousand thoughts exploded in his head, and he desperately tried to reel them in, to make them fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. Kristina wanted to bust up the Rambally marriage, get Abbie out of the picture.
She wanted access to trial transcripts and visited Brynn in prison, Henry found out. Zach Rossdale was dead within a month of Lucas’s kidnapping and safe return, long before Brynn’s trial kicked off.
What did Kristina learn from Brynn, and why was Zach Rossdale conveniently dead due to a prison fight a month after his plot to kidnap and murder Lucas was uncovered? Why didn’t prison guards break up the fight?
Something about this scenario stuck in his craw. And whatever it was, Kristina Hayward Saxena was up to her neck in it. It was what got her killed. Henry would bet his life on it.
CHAPTER 81
ABBIE
The police are here, just like I knew they would be. When news of Kristina’s death broke a week ago, I knew it would only be a matter of time before they came knocking at our door as the investigation heated up.
Two detectives from the Bedford police department are in our living room, sitting across from Ty and me. A feeling of déjà vu overwhelms me. This exact scene played out a little over three years ago when the police were investigating the death of our nanny, Olivia Stewart.
Frank Conklin and Elizabeth Chaisson are the detectives leading the investigation.
Conklin gets straight to the point. “How do know the victim?” he asks Ty.
“We attended the same college.”
“Where was that?”
“Yale.”
“And that’s it?”
The detectives know full well that’s not it. They wouldn’t be here talking to us if they thought that was it. Ty and I discussed the interview prior to their arrival and agreed to operate under the assumption the police know a lot more than they’re saying.
While Kristina’s death was a shock, I can’t say I’m devasted. The vile things she threatened to do and the unnecessarily diabolical, hateful scheme she outlined to me during our final, contentious encounter resulted in many sleepless nights. Her words had a terrifying hold on me and now, no longer.
No longer will I look over my shoulder, live in fear of what she might do next. I’m not saying she got what she deserved, but I’m saying I can live in peace again. And truth be told, Kristina was a tortured soul. May death bring her the peace that alluded her in life.
Ty said, “Kristina and I dated for a couple of months. She left for England after graduation.”
After answering a series of questions, we get to the heart of the matter, the reason the detectives came to see us.
“Why did the victim file a sexual harassment complaint against you, Dr. Rambally?” Conklin asks.
Ty and I had prepared for this question. The police aren’t stupid. Our plan is to be transparent enough to ensure we don’t become the investigators number-one suspects.
“Kristina wanted me to leave my wife for her. When I refused, she wanted payback, so she fabricated the complaint.”
Chaisson asks, “Why would she do something like that? Were you having an affair with the deceased?”
“No, Detective.” Ty explains running into Kristina in London, her move here, and everything that happened leading up to her death. Neither detective reacts.
Conklin asks, “When was the last time you both saw Mrs. Saxena?”
“At the hospital gala three weeks ago,” Ty said.
“And you, Dr. Rambally?” Chaisson asks, her eyes focused on me.
“Same as my husband,” I lie.
“Have either one of you ever been to her apartment?” Conklin asks.
We both shake our heads.
“When did you learn of Mrs. Saxena’s death?” Chaisson asks Ty.
“Let’s see. A week ago. The head of my department, Dr. Stevenson, called me into his office and told me Kristina was discovered dead in her apartment after she no-showed for work and her boss got worried.”
“Is your supervisor in the habit of delivering news privately?”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind,” Chaisson says. Her next questions puts us on the defensive.
“So we have a victim who filed a sexual harassment complaint against you, Dr. Rambally, and two weeks later, she’s dead. Care to comment?”
“There’s nothing to comment about. As you probably know, my wife and I hired an attorney to protect our interests. If Kristina’s lies had escalated, it could have been the end of my career.”
“How so?” Conklin asks.
I jump in. “My husband is a prominent surgeon at a leading hospital. You don’t have to be a detective to know the kind of damage an allegation like that can cause, long before an investigative outcome determines guilt or innocence.”
Neither detective says anything. I add, “I’m sure you’ll discover during the course of your investigation that Kristina was a disturbed individual with serious psychological problems.”
“Is that your professional opinion?” Chaisson asks.
“Kristina was not a patient of mine. But it is my professional opinion, based on my interactions with her and observations of her actions, that she displayed characteristics of mental instability.”
“Is that so?” Conklin asks. I can’t determine whether he’s skeptical or intrigued.
I dodge the question of Kristina’s mental instability and lob a question of a different kind. “Do you have any leads on the killer or a motive?”
“It’s still early in the investigation,” Conklin says.
“How did Kristina die?” I ask. “I mean, we know from the news reports she was shot, but where?”
Chaisson leans in. “Why do you ask? Is there something you want to tell us?”
“No. I’m just wondering if Kristina could have survived. I don’t know anything about guns, but wouldn’t someone in the apartment next door hear the shot and call for help? That’s all I’m saying.”
Chaisson’s gaze lingers on me a few seconds too long, as though she’s not sure what to make of my curiosity. Then she says, “Mrs. Saxena was shot in the temple.”
“Oh,” I say and slink back into the sofa.
The detectives ask several more questions. When it’s finally over, I breathe a sigh of relief. Soon, the police will have everything they need to wrap up their investigation, concluding that Kristina committed suicide.
CHAPTER 82
ABBIE
One Week Earlier
I let myself into the apartment. It was after ten at night. Kristina went out for a swim in the complex’s Olympic-sized swimming pool fifteen minutes ago. She was expecting a visitor and left the door unlocked. I’d been following her movements and monitoring her electronic communication over the past several days.
When I left Kristina’s office at MGH for the last time, I knew she wouldn’t back down until she succeeding in destroying my family. I couldn’t let that happen. I had to stop her.
I was in the middle of scoping out the perfect hiding spot when I heard a man whistling. The sound got closer and closer to the unlocked apartment door. My eyes scanned the space in a panic. Where can I hide? The closet in the hallway off the living room would have to do. I made it inside in the nick of time.
“I’m here,” a male voice called out.
I recognized the voice. It was Callum Saxena. Dressed in a suit after ten at night. He dropped a briefcase on the sofa. The living room closet door had peep vents. The view was far from perfect, but I could make out movements.
Shortly thereafter, Kristina arrived. Callum said, “Why don’t you go have a shower and I’ll make us some tea?”
Callum headed to the kitchen out of my view, making tea, I assume. The closet was small, but I didn’t dare breath or move. Fifteen minutes later, Kristina came back from her shower and stopped in the kitchen. I was sweating, my gloved hands making me even hotter.
It was difficult to hear clearly. I caught snatches of their conversation. It was a beautiful apartment, small enough that sound carried, but being stuck in a closet didn’t help. After a while, they returned to the living room.
Good. I can hear better.
“I had my attorney draw up these. Real divorce papers. The terms are very much the same as the phony ones you had made. That was a work of genius, by the way. My hat’s off to your forger.”
“Callum.” Kristina hesitates. “Perhaps in light of recent revelations, we—”
Callum cut her off. “Save your pity, darling. I’m putting my affairs in order, and that includes the divorce you’ve wanted for so long. I have no heirs. I’m offering you a twenty-million-pound payout, and that’s that.”
Whoa! I almost let out a you gotta be kidding me, but then I quickly realized I would give away my position. And knowing Kristina, she would have me arrested for trespassing.
Callum unlocked the briefcase and handed Kristina a bunch of papers, which she signed. Callum then took the papers from her and placed them back into his briefcase.
“I suppose this is it then,” Kristina said.
“I suppose it is,” Callum said and then stood.
Callum reached into his waistband, pulled out a gun, and shot Kristina in the temple. Then he calmly left the apartment, closing the door behind him.
It took me a minute to catch my breath. It happened so fast; there was no time to act.
Once I stopped shaking, I slowly exited the closet and went over to the sofa. Kristina lay lifeless, blood pooling onto her camisole.
I reached into my bag and pulled out the dark-blue journal I’d brought with me. I placed it under one of the sofa cushions and then exited the apartment.
EPILOGUE
ABBIE
Blue Heron Lake—One Year Later
Frances, Callie, and I sit under an umbrella canopy protected from the August sun while enjoying spectacular views of Blue Heron Lake in upstate New York. Miles and Layla exchanged wedding vows a few hours ago in a sweet, intimate ceremony that brought us all to tears.
This celebratory occasion is mostly a family affair. The spectacular lakeside property, with its immaculate landscaping, windows all facing the lake, and separate boathouse and lake house, is the perfect place to celebrate family, according to Dad who made the purchase months ago. After the year we’ve had, we deserve the serenity and beauty of a place like this.
“Are you planning on moving back to the States so we can all live on the same continent?” I ask Frances. “Now that Callie is settling in New York again, it’s time you come home to America. We can hang out like old times.”
“I don’t know if it’s safe to come home, Abbie. Do you have any more psychos coming for you?” she asks cheekily. “Besides, Hugh is very British. I don’t know if I could convince him to move here.”
Frances glances at the massive lawn where her husband Hugh is chasing one of the kids in a game of tag, despite the fact they’re still in formal wear and it’s eighty-five degrees.
“You’ve spent your career convincing reluctant people to speak to you. You can convince Hugh,” Callie says.
“Agreed,” I say. “And to answer your question, I’m done with psychos. For good. So it’s safe to come home.”
The hospital cleared Ty of any wrongdoing when the blue notebook detailing Kristina’s obsession with him was discovered by investigators. The hospital ruled her allegations false based on a desire for revenge against a man who had repeatedly rejected her.
Callum Saxena passed away three months after I saw him shoot Kristina in her apartment. To this day, no one knows I was there when it happened. I still wrestle with my guilt, but it’s a small price to pay to keep the truth buried forever.
I knew Callum planned to kill Kristina and make it look like a suicide. When he approached me with the idea, knowing he didn’t have long to live and could get away with it, I saw a way out of the unending nightmare Kristina had brought on my family.
Ty would have been exonerated eventually, but Kristina wouldn’t give up so easily. She would find other ways to torment us, no matter how much information I dug up on her past.
Like Kristina, I dabbled in a bit of forgery to bring the nightmare to a conclusion. I typed out the various journal entries. Then, armed with a sample of Kristina’s handwriting I swiped from her office, the highly competent forger I hired wrote each entry into the blue journal.
That insurance policy paid major dividends when investigators found it in Kristina’s apartment, detailing her obsession with Ty, which supported the suicide conclusion.
Diabolical? Yes. Necessary? Yes. Do I regret it? No.
Police investigators also found on Kristina’s phone a recorded conversation between Seamus Jones and Kristina discussing the botched attempt on my life in Jamaica.
