by Torre, A. R.
He dropped the file and stepped away from the desk.
“What are you doing in here?” I closed the file and wrapped a rubber band around it. “Is this what you do? You sleep with someone and then go through all their things?”
“I had to check my work messages. My cell’s battery is dead.” He nodded to the phone on my desk. “I didn’t have a charger, and you don’t have a phone in the kitchen. This was the first room where I found one. I’m sorry. His name caught my eye.”
I opened my drawer and pushed the folder into it. “You should go. I can order a car for you if your phone is dead.”
He didn’t move, and my frustration grew.
“You know what confidentiality I’m bound to. You have a very similar one with your clients,” I said.
“You should have told me that you were John’s shrink.”
“Why?” I gave a strangled laugh. “You were a stranger in a bar. I didn’t owe you confidential information about a client.”
“A dead client,” he pointed out.
“It doesn’t matter. My legal obligations don’t change.” I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him.
“Okay,” he said finally, his jaw tight. “Fine. No need to call me a car. Thank you for the hospitality.”
He picked up his jacket from where he’d folded it over a chair and walked into the hall. I stayed in place and listened as his dress shoes sounded down the hall and out the front door. There was a quiet click as it latched back into place. From the kitchen, something wafted smoke in the air.
I picked up the phone’s receiver and listened to the dial tone. I studied the bank of buttons, then reached forward and pressed the redial button. An unknown number with a 310 area code displayed. Holding my breath, I listened as the phone rang once and then went to a voice mail for Cluster & Kavin Law Firm.
I hung up. So, he had called his office. Cluster & Kavin . . . I paused halfway through to the hall and inhaled sharply, suddenly aware of who Robert was.
Robert Kavin. The father of Gabe.
CHAPTER 7
Robert Kavin stopped at the end of Gwen’s driveway and looked to either side, surveying the quiet neighborhood. It was well established, the yards neatly tended to, the cars all tucked behind garage doors. He’d liked her house, liked the perfect order and care it held. It was a home with character, her style elegant with an edge. The skull paperweight tucked into her bookcase. The framed blood-spatter prints hanging in her powder room. The rich navy walls. Books everywhere. Art that seemed to have a story behind every piece. He wanted to know those stories, wanted to unlock the brilliant and sexy woman who had crawled on top of him in the back seat of the cab with an infectious laugh that had contrasted with her professional exterior.
His warm feelings toward her had dissolved the moment he saw that file on her desk. He’d only had a chance to read a few pages before she had interrupted him, but it had been enough to know that her sessions with John Abbott had been highly personal in nature. Personal and full of violence.
He glanced back at the two-story Tudor and headed left down the street, cursing himself for his phone’s dead battery. He hadn’t paid attention to his bearings when the taxi took them home last night, but he headed north, hoping the road would lead to a neighborhood exit, preferably one with a gas station or strip mall nearby. He fisted his jacket in his left hand and moved to the shaded side of the street. Even in October, the California heat was a bitch.
If his son were here, he’d laugh at him. Gabe would make some crack about Robert getting literally screwed. He’d ask why he’d stormed off instead of talking things out with Gwen. And if Robert would say that he tried to, and she had clammed up and spouted about confidentiality, Gabe would point out that he’d have done the same thing.
Which was true. Twenty years of dealing with clients—some really terrible clients—and he’d never broken their confidence. Granted, a one-night stand had never gone through his case files, either. He grimaced at the thought of what his reaction would be if one did. Calm reactions weren’t his strong suit.
A Volvo with Stanford decals passed, and he watched it go, reluctant to flag down a stranger. Ahead, a cart path sign said CLUBHOUSE with a small arrow. That couldn’t be too far.
The neighborhood felt familiar, like the one Gabe’s first girlfriend had lived in. Her parents had thrown a Fourth of July party and all but forced him to attend. It had been in the middle of the Zentenberg trial, and he’d barely had the energy to stand, but he’d gone. Talk about a painful three hours. The same conversation over and over again about the Chargers, then the forest fires, then the election. A nonstop circle of dull conversation.
If Natasha had been alive, she would have gone to that party with him. She liked that stuff. She could stand there, a drink in hand, and laugh at stupid comments as if they were the wittiest thing she’d ever heard. And it didn’t come across as fake, which was commendable, considering that she always ripped apart the person as soon as they were out of earshot. It was one thing he hadn’t missed about her. The backbiting and judgment that never seemed to stop.
Around the curve, the golf clubhouse appeared. He stepped over a curb and turned down the wide drive, his pace quickening at the prospect of a phone and air-conditioning. He glanced at his watch, wondering if the bar would be open, despite the early hour.
Right now, what he really needed was a drink.
The bar was open and empty, his scotch order taken with a grunt. Leaning back on the stool, he stretched his back, sighing as something popped into place. He was too old for marathon sex, and last night had been the first time in a while that he had been so . . . active.
Gwen had been a surprise in bed. Passionate and needy, but also confident. She hadn’t covered herself up when he looked at her, or apologized for the cellulite along her thighs. Maybe that confidence came from sitting across from killers all day.
His mood darkened, and he pulled the drink closer.
“. . . a tearful reunion.”
He glanced at the television and caught the tail end of a video with a family embracing. His mood soured further.
“Crazy stuff, right?” The bartender leaned against the bar, his palms tucked underneath his armpits.
“Yep.” Robert stared into the glass. Scott Harden and his miraculous escape was the last thing he wanted to hear about.
“You heard about this, right? That missing kid—you know, the one they thought was taken by that serial killer? He escaped from the guy.”
The missing kid. Not Gabe, who hadn’t been able to escape. Scott Harden. Lucky Scott Harden.
Robert’s emotions rose as the television announcers recapped the escape and reunion. The camera cut to a summary of the BH history, and he downed the rest of the watered-down drink. Gabe’s name was mentioned, and he slammed down the tumbler. Pulling out his wallet, he retrieved a twenty-dollar bill and placed it on the bar. “Thanks.”
“Sure.”
His anxiety rose as he heard Gabe’s name again. Were they showing the photos? His bare foot hanging out from under the tarp? A bloody letter jacket?
He made it out of the lobby and through the front doors and saw the taxi moving down the drive toward him. Raising his hand to catch its attention, he closed his eyes but couldn’t block out the image, the one they always showed. His son, smiling into the camera with his football jersey on—the one taken just eight weeks before he was killed.
CHAPTER 8
Nita Harden had expected her son to be skinny. Somehow, against all odds, her son had grown thicker. Now, as Scott sat in a wingback chair in the study, his white button-up shirt was snug against a chest dotted with small cigarette burns that were starting to scab over. Seated before him, Detective Erica Petts adjusted a dial on a voice recorder, then set it on her knees. She’d been the first to the house when Scott had disappeared and had listened to countless questions, tears, and complaints from George and Nita during the duration of his absence.
�
�If you get tired or need a break, just let me know. And take your time if you need to think over a question.” The detective leaned forward in her chair, her full attention on Scott.
“Yes, ma’am.” He was such a polite boy. That was one thing that George had done a great job of. Back in first grade, Scott was using please and thank you before he knew how to write. Nita’s pride swelled as she watched him rub the side of his handsome face.
“Okay, we’re recording this, just so we don’t miss anything.” The other cop settled into the third chair in the cluster. Detective Ed Harvey was a big, burly man with glasses. He’d always put off a clear “Get out of our way and let us do our job” vibe that had infuriated her. Now that Scott was home, Ed’s attitude had switched to one of suspicion, though she couldn’t figure out of whom.
Nita leaned against the wall, knotting her hands as she watched Ed offer Scott a soda. It was a brand he didn’t like, and she left the room and hurried to the kitchen. In the large double fridge, she found a can of root beer. Returning to the study, she crept forward and set it down next to him on the desk.
“Thanks, Mom.” He smiled at her.
Erica cleared her throat. “How are you, Scott?”
He gave a shy smile. “I’m good. Glad to be home.”
She gave a short laugh. “I bet you are. Got any big plans?”
“Well, my mom is fixing lasagna tonight. I’m pretty excited about that. Then we’re going to watch Die Hard.”
Nita had suggested a less violent movie, but Scott had rolled his eyes and cajoled George into siding with him. Not that it had taken much work. She couldn’t refuse him anything. Right now, her heart felt like it would burst every time she looked at him.
She couldn’t sleep at night out of the sheer relief and joy of having him back under their roof. She had broached the idea of bringing a cot into his room, but her husband had stopped that idea with a firm shake of his head.
“Great movie,” Ed interjected. “Love Bruce Willis.”
“Yeah.” Scott cracked the top of his root beer.
There was a pause, and Nita shifted her weight to her other foot.
“You were gone for forty-four days, Scott.” Erica clicked her pen into action. “How much do you remember about the day you were taken?”
“Everything. I mean . . . well, I remember everything leading up to when I blacked out. Then I remember being at the house.”
“Okay, so let’s go to the last thing you remember, before you blacked out.”
“Well, we had that football game, against Harvard-Westlake.” He scratched the back of his head. “And I, uh, showered after the game. A lot of the guys were talking about going to get food, so I grabbed my gear and headed to my truck.”
Scott’s truck had been his seventeenth-birthday present. A huge silver four-door with off-road tires and an engine that was too loud, but he loved it. When he was missing, she had climbed up into it and sat for hours, desperately inhaling the air, needing his scent.
“But you never made it to the truck?” Ed asked.
“No, I did. Next to my truck, someone was parked there. It was, um, the science teacher from school. Mr. Thompson.”
“This man?” Erica pulled a photo out from a folder on her lap. Nita eased around to get a better look at the image. It was a man in his late fifties, with a neat white beard, a receding hairline, and a kind smile. It was a staff photo in which he wore a lanyard and had a name tag clipped to a slightly crumpled white button-up. She stared at it. This was the monster who had taken her son. The man who had tortured and killed six others. The man whom she must have passed a dozen times at Beverly High and never noticed. Where had her motherly intuition been? How had it not screamed at her, with a giant glowing spotlight on his face?
“Yeah, that’s him.”
The problem was, she had grown lax. Assumed that because Scott was 170 pounds and practically an adult, he was safe. A stupid assumption, one she would never make again.
“So, what happened?” Ed asked.
“He needed help getting something out of his trunk. I bent over to help him, and he stuck something in my neck. Whatever it was, it knocked me out like that.” Scott snapped his fingers.
“Where were you when you woke up?” Erica asked.
He hesitated. Lifted his soda to his mouth and took a sip. Glanced at his mother. “Uh—in a room. On a bed. I was tied to it.”
Nita held eye contact with him until the moment he looked away. Her stomach cramped. During the weeks of Scott’s absence, as they grew certain the BH Killer was involved, the police had shared information with them about the other victims. The details about what the autopsies had shown . . . Nita let out an involuntary shudder.
Scott had always been a fairly innocent boy. No serious girlfriends, though he’d had plenty of crushes over the years. Before his disappearance, she would have put her hand on a Bible and sworn he was a virgin. Now, her gaze dropped to his bandaged wrists. They had been the first thing she took care of, after she fixed him a plate of food and helped him into a hot shower. She had called Erica while Scott had been in the bathroom, and the detective practically screamed at her to get him out in order to preserve evidence.
But Scott had been filthy. And he’d already known who took him, so why did evidence matter? It didn’t. What mattered was healing. The police needed to wrap up their questions and leave him alone so that he could return to being a normal teenager with his family.
“Do you know where this house was? Was it this one?” Ed produced a photo, which Scott glanced at.
“Maybe. When I left, I just ran. I didn’t look at the house.”
Nita watched him carefully, saw the moment he rubbed the side of his face with his forefinger. It was one of his tells, and she frowned, wondering what he was lying about.
“Were you in a bedroom? His bedroom?” Erica asked.
“No, I don’t think he lived there. I was drugged most of the time, so I’m not sure.”
The two detectives glanced at each other.
“You need to arrest him.” Nita spoke up. “Before he disappears, or before he comes here.”
“We have officers with Randall Thompson now.” Erica met her eyes. “We’re waiting on a warrant to search his home. Don’t worry. He won’t be out of our sight.”
“What if he says he didn’t do it?” Scott asked. “If it’s my word against his?”
“The evidence has a vote,” Ed said. “It’ll be fine.”
Scott nodded, but he looked unconvinced. Nita moved forward. “You’ve asked enough questions for tonight. He’s exhausted, and we should have our attorney present if you have any more.”
Her husband watched from his place by the door and nodded his approval. He had wanted to call their attorney first, but Nita had argued with him, insisting that the most urgent thing was to get the teacher locked away. She walked the officers to the front door and hugged Erica goodbye, whispering a thank-you in the woman’s ear. Pausing at the door, she glanced back at her son, who was still seated. He glanced back at her, then quickly looked away.
Her unease grew. Her son was keeping something from the police.
What could it possibly be? And why?
CHAPTER 9
Cluster & Kavin Law Firm was housed in the same building as the Creative Artists Agency, which meant that once a week, Robert Kavin bumped elevator elbows with a celebrity. It was a factoid that had once earned him enormous street cred with his son, back when he was young enough to be impressed. That magic had left around puberty, replaced by a bored expression that only seemed to react when money, his car, or girls were involved.
One day soon, Robert would set all his files on fire and move to a shack on the beach. He’d wear board shorts and a baseball cap and not shave for a year. He’d handle cases about beach access and rental deposits and represent sandy daiquiri bars that paid in alcohol and coconut shrimp. This sleek building, pressed and starched suits . . . all that would be left behind.
&n
bsp; “You’re daydreaming again.” His receptionist spoke from her spot next to him in the elevator, a knowing smile stretched across the older woman’s face. “Let me guess. Aruba?”
“I’m thinking Uruguay now.” The elevator doors slid open, and he held his hand against the opening, gesturing her forward. “Lower tax rate. Want to join me?”
The stately grandmother of three chuckled as she stepped off the elevator. “I can’t convince Fred to take the forty-five-minute drive to Costco. There’s no chance of getting him on an airplane anytime in this century.”
They rounded the corner and passed through the tall glass doors and into the law-firm lobby.
“Is Martin here?” He pulled his keys out and flipped through the set, finding the one for his office door and pushing it into the lock. Out of the three firm partners, he was the only one with the additional layer of security, but he didn’t care. That was the difference between him and someone like Gwen, who left her files out for anyone to see. Carelessness like that was how cases were lost, secrets were spread, and careers were destroyed.
“He’s been here since seven.”
“Imagine that.” He flipped on the lights and tossed his keys on the desk, then headed to his partner’s office.
Martin was on the phone and met Robert’s eyes as he came in. Nodding toward the conference table at the end of his office, he held up his finger in a “Just one minute” gesture. Robert took one of the leather rolling chairs and plucked a sticky doughnut off a discarded plate on the edge of the massive desk.
“There’s coconut in that,” Martin warned as he ended the call. “I swear, Joy’s teaming up with my wife to get me to lose weight.”
“I like coconut,” Robert said through a mouthful.
“Right.” Martin picked up the end of his tie and examined it, scratching at a spot with his fingernail. Glancing back at Robert, he paused. “I’m assuming you heard about Scott Harden returning home.”
“I did.” Robert wiped at his mouth. “One of the detectives called.”