The Letter Of The Law

by Tim Green

  What she needed was a glass of wine. She was jumpy and overreacting to an emotional few days. She took her steak off the grill and cut the flame. With several glances over her shoulder, she went back into the house, stopping to lock the sliding door that led into the kitchen. She set her steak on the granite bar and dumped the broccoli down on the plate beside it.

  From the wine rack she removed a good bottle of merlot, opened it, and poured a large glass. While the wine breathed, she went back to the glass door and peered outside for several minutes. The sun had dropped down below the edge of the hills, and the sky was already beginning to turn a deep postcard pink. Casey took little notice of the sky. Instead, she carefully studied the woods that bordered the fairway.

  After a while she turned her attention back to her meal. But before sitting down, she went upstairs and took a small Colt 7mm automatic out of the dresser drawer. She set it down beside her plate and took a long sip of wine. The steak was a little underdone, but she ate it anyway, relishing the taste of blood with her wine. Half a bottle later, with her stomach now full, she began to relax once more.

  When the doorbell rang, she jumped. They didn't live in the kind of neighborhood where people made house calls. Each house was on its own small estate. Neighbors naturally afforded one another a considerable degree of privacy. But no one else should have been able to get into the development without stopping at the gate. Security would have called to ask her permission to let them in. Pistol in hand, she cautiously approached the front door. Through the ornate beveled glass in the door, she could make out the shadowy form of a man.

  With her free hand on the doorknob she said, "Tony?"

  He was the only person she could think of who might be able to get past the security gate without their calling, although even that didn't make sense. The fleeting images she thought she'd seen in the garage and outside came back to her. Whoever it was rang the bell again.

  "Tony!" she said as an edge of panic crept into her voice. "Is that you?"

  There was a sidelight next to the door that was cloaked in a translucent curtain. Casey wanted to pull the curtain aside and look out, but something inside her didn't want to be seen peering out like a timid mouse by whoever was there. The man rapped his knuckles hard and loud against the wood of the door. Casey started to feel angry now; angry at her fear and angry at the insistence of whoever was out there. She was no coward. She'd grown up literally fighting like a boy. In that moment, she remembered with pride the shock on her parents' faces when she'd been suspended from school for breaking the nose of an insolent boy. If she had to shoot someone to defend herself, she could do that, too, and without hesitation. Against her better senses, she raised the gun, twisted the lock, and yanked open the door with a ferocious look on her face.

  "Ms. Jordan."

  "Detective," she said, still angry. "Why in hell are you here?"

  "Did I shake you up?" Bolinger asked, eyeing the gun with only mild concern. His badge had been enough to get him through the gates. Bolinger had actually tracked Unger down at the clubhouse. To make the agent feel a part of things, he'd filled him in on the details of his investigation into Lipton's computer, including the titillating details about Roman Empire Ltd., before requesting that Unger process a subpoena.

  "No. Yes. You didn't shake me up," Casey explained, dropping the gun down to her side, "but I certainly didn't expect to be disturbed by you at home, my home, without warning."

  "Well, I don't mean to disturb you," Bolinger said sarcastically. "But my captain wanted me to make sure you knew about Frank Castle and that we're still looking for Donald Sales and I was… in the neighborhood, so to speak."

  "I read the papers," Casey said defiantly. Actually, she felt like a fool standing there with a pistol in her big T-shirt and a pair of UT athletic shorts. The last time she'd seen Bolinger, she'd been in a charcoal business suit and heels, and the only thing in her hand was a briefcase.

  "That's what I said," he told her, unable to keep his eyes from wandering toward her fine bare legs. "But the captain, he doesn't want something to happen to you and have anyone say that we should have made you aware of the situation so you could… so you could be more alert than you otherwise might be. But I see you're already prepared for the worst."

  "Are you trying to scare me, Sergeant?" she asked.

  "No. You're already scared," he said placidly. "That's pretty obvious. Has something happened?"

  Casey pressed her lips tightly together and considered the detective. Irrational or not, she was scared. She was still shaking from the unannounced intrusion and the connection it had in her mind to the shadowy fears she'd already experienced. She cleared her throat and said, "Would you like a cup of coffee, Sergeant?"

  "I've been known to drink coffee," he said, stepping across the threshold and into the house.

  Bolinger sat at the kitchen table while Casey put the coffee on.

  "That's some view," he remarked, looking out past the pool, across the water, and down the dark green fairway of the luxuriant golf course and the blood-red sky still framing the hills. "I never realized getting criminals off was such a lucrative business."

  Casey placed two steaming ceramic mugs on the table and sat down across from Bolinger. "I'm not a lawyer because of the money, Detective. I do it because I believe in it. Our judicial system is the best in the world, the best in the history of the human race."

  "Wow. That's pretty good," Bolinger said with a mischievous smile. "Do you think the judicial system was working good when you got Lipton off?"

  "I didn't free Professor Lipton." Casey sniffed. "A jury did that. I advocated for him to the best of my abilities. That's what I do. That's what people deserve. I know you're not familiar with it, but it's called the presumption of innocence, Detective."

  Bolinger shook his head. "Do you think society deserves to have him running around out there, killing innocent young women?"

  "Detective," Casey said, glowering. "I invited you in for a cup of coffee, not to talk about Professor Lipton. I'd like to know what's being done to find Donald Sales. I would think you'd be looking for him.

  "But," she added sharply, "I'm only basing that on logic."

  Bolinger sighed and took a swig of his coffee. It was the flavored stuff that cost fifteen bucks a pound. He swallowed it fast to get past the taste and thought wistfully about the Dunkin' Donuts he would have to visit on the way home for a cup of coffee. "I'm interested in them both. Hey, look, I don't mean to be callous, but I find it pretty ironic that someone who spends her time helping to set criminals free is now concerned about one that's on the loose."

  Casey bit back a caustic response and instead asked, "Is there any particular reason your captain thinks that I have a reason to worry about Donald Sales?"

  "I don't know," Bolinger said, considering her carefully. "I guess I haven't thought about it too much. I guess not, really. Sales is probably in Mexico by now, or somewhere."

  "But not here?" Casey asked.

  "No. Not here."

  Casey nodded and came quite close to telling him about the things she'd seen.

  "There is something I'd like to ask you about Lipton, though," he continued. "I'd like to know about his legal seminars."

  "The Letter of the Law," she said.

  "The Letter of the Law?" he asked quizzically.

  "The seminars, that's what they're called," Casey told him. "He wrote a book, too. They focus on the nuances of our criminal justice system."

  Bolinger took another quick sip and fought back a grimace. "Lipton had a computer that we confiscated when we arrested him last year. One of our people looked at it, but not very hard. I was thinking that he probably kept his business records on that computer. Would you agree with that?"

  Casey looked at him blank-faced. "I can't really discuss anything about Professor Lipton with you, Sergeant. You should know that. He's my client."

  "I thought he was your client," Bolinger said. "And… if you go by the book
s, he's been tried and acquitted in the case where you represented him. Technically, you're not his lawyer anymore, and you can talk to me about him and you know it. And you also know that if you have information that could prevent a future crime, you not only can tell me, you're ethically bound to."

  "I know the law, Sergeant," she said impatiently.

  "He's gone, you know," Bolinger said quietly. "I need to find him, and I'd like to know where it was he conducted these seminars."

  "I really shouldn't be discussing any of this," she said.

  "Can't you just tell me if I'm right? I mean about his computer. I know you have it. I spoke to Michael Dove. He got it from property and gave it to you when you took the case." Bolinger leaned across the table and dropped his voice in an excited tone, "I'm going to level with you… I don't think Marcia Sales or the girl in Atlanta were the only ones. I think there were probably girls before and… there'll be girls to come."

  "Detective, I-"

  "No! You just listen to me," Bolinger said, his eyes burning with intensity. "You don't have to say anything, just listen. I've got a feeling that that computer holds the key to everything, where he was, where he's going. Maybe even a list of women he met over the years at these seminars, a goddamn target list!

  "That's how these kinds of people do things," he continued frantically. "They don't stop! That job on Marcia Sales was done by someone who'd done it before, probably dozens of times. He took her fucking gall bladder for a trophy, for God's sake!"

  Bolinger was boiling over now. He'd been formulating his theory for months, without telling anyone. It had just churned around in his gut fermenting until now. "That's the kind of crazy shit a serial killer does, that crazy connection. She wasn't raped. She was eviscerated! That's bizarre. It's unheard of. He's probably impotent. He gets off on tying up these women lawyers. He tapes them up, that's his way of controlling them, asserting his dominance. Then he butchers them and takes their gall bladders for a memento.

  "That's how these sick fucks think, that's how they get started. They kill someone somewhere, and it turns them on in their own sick way, and then they get away with it. When they get away with it once, they keep doing it and every time they get better. Then, they get so good they start to play with you. With the police, I mean. They know how it works by then. They know how to leave a crime scene totally clean. They wear gloves. They wear two layers of clothes and shoes wrapped in plastic bags. Their balls get bigger and bigger until they think they're fucking untouchable.

  "I think that's why Lipton killed Marcia Sales. He wanted to prove something, like he could do it in his own backyard and get away with it. He would have, too, if he hadn't hit that woman's car. Even then, he got off. He's free, and he's probably got more balls than ever!"

  "And what if you're wrong, Detective?" Casey said with just as much passion. "What if I was right at the trial and it really was Donald Sales? Maybe he's the killer."

  "What about the girl in Atlanta?" Bolinger demanded. "Why would Sales kill her? There's no connection."

  "Maybe that was part of a different perfect crime, the perfect setup," she argued. "He was infuriated with his daughter, maybe enough to kill her. He hated Lipton for his involvement, and he figured he could kill the girl and blame it on Lipton at the same time."

  "And go all the way to Atlanta to do it?" Bolinger asked incredulously.

  "It's possible, Detective. It's really possible," she said.

  Lipton's own confession was ringing out all the while, clear and keen in the back of her mind. Casey wanted desperately to be right. The idea that Lipton's confession was anything but a sick joke was too horrible to admit without a fight.

  Bolinger frowned. "If I could get his records, we'd know. If I could find out where he's been over the past five or ten years, I could check those places for this kind of crime. If we find one that's connected to Lipton, we'll know it's not the father. Lipton didn't know Marcia Sales until she came to school. Sales couldn't have killed someone five years ago to set him up."

  "Well, even if you're right," Casey said, "I can't help you. Even if I could help you, I don't have his computer, and when I did have it I didn't even look at it. He just asked me to hold it."

  "When did he get it back?"

  "The day after the trial," she said.

  "Goddamn!" Bolinger struck his palm with a fist. "I knew it. He wanted it back!"

  "Of course he wanted it back," Casey snapped. "Anyone would want their computer back."

  "No, but right away?" Bolinger said. "First thing you do is get your computer back and disappear?"

  "You said he was gone, now you're saying he disappeared," Casey said with concern.

  "He has."

  "Maybe he's afraid of Sales," Casey suggested hopefully.

  "I won't lie to you. I know Sales," Bolinger said, looking at her hard. "He's a dangerous man. I like him, but he's dangerous. I think this trial, what you… what happened to him and to his daughter put him over the edge. He killed Frank Castle, and I'm pretty sure he was the one who shot Lipton. I could never prove it, but it was him. To be honest, I didn't care all that much about what he did to Lipton because I know Lipton killed Marcia Sales and that girl in Atlanta and probably a lot more. Unlike you, I figure sometimes justice needs a little shove. But Lipton lived and now he's free and he's out there and I'm going to get him."

  "And Sales?" Casey said.

  Bolinger shrugged. "I'll get him, too, if I can."

  "If you can?" Casey asked incredulously. "If he killed Frank Castle and shot Lipton, he could be the one that's behind everything."

  "You mean the girl in Atlanta, too?" Bolinger scoffed.

  "Yes," she urged. "You're right about one thing. There's a killer loose somewhere, a serial killer if that's what you say. And you can go on all you want about Professor Lipton, but it's every bit as likely that Donald Sales is the man you want."

  Bolinger looked at her long and hard before saying, "You're trying awfully hard to be convincing… But I wonder…"

  He paused, then said, "Are you trying to convince me? Or are you really just trying to convince yourself?"

  CHAPTER 20

  By the light of the moon, Donald Sales crept out of the trees and up to the golf course maintenance shed. Along its side lay an eighteen-foot aluminum ladder. Sales spun his shoulders around and swept the area one more time completely with his bloodshot eyes. He then shouldered the ladder and hurried back into the shadows.

  Picking his way carefully along the course, it took him nearly thirty minutes to get from the shed to Casey's house. He knew where the cover was and where the open places were. He also knew from two nights of reconnoitering that people sometimes walked along the cart paths at night. At three A.M., however, he doubted he'd run into anyone. But Sales was thorough. So thorough, in fact, that in his mind he'd already formulated a sequence of events once he was inside the house.

  The first thing he'd done when he eluded Bolinger three days ago was make his way to a shopping center with a Wal-Mart and a nearby grocery store. He had known that he had only a small amount of time before his face would hit the news, and he wanted to take advantage of his short-lived anonymity to get supplies. Living in the hills wasn't a problem. He knew of a multiplicity of hidden caves that would provide him with shelter. But having a sleeping bag, a flashlight, some food, clothes, and ample ammunition, among other things, would make his existence that much easier. They would also afford him the time he needed to carry out his mission.

  If he'd had to worry about hunting for food, he wouldn't have been able to sneak around the shrubbery surrounding Casey's home reconnoitering the situation. After more than a day of watching, he knew her husband was gone. It wasn't that her husband was a particularly imposing obstacle, but his absence made things that much easier.

  At the edge of Casey's property, down near the golf course lake, was an ornate little wrought-iron fence. Sales set the ladder down inside the fence, gently felt for the roll of duct ta
pe on his hip, and vaulted over the fence with remarkable agility for a big man in his late forties. With the ladder over his shoulder, he waded through the low bushes toward the house. After skirting the pool, he gently poised the ladder against the small balcony that jutted out from the master bedroom. He knew from the way the lights went out that this was where Casey slept. He had already wrapped the ends of the ladder in rags, so the only sound was the quiet complaint of aluminum as he lifted his two hundred sixty pounds hand-over-hand up toward the balcony. When he got to the edge, he stopped to listen.

  His heart pounded steadily in his chest. Otherwise, the night was silent. He could feel a thrill not unlike what he had felt in warfare in the marrow of his bones. With unusual stealth he went over the railing and stood at full height in the doorway that led into the bedroom. The sliding glass door was open. Only a screen stood between him and Casey Jordan. The moonlight at his back was strong enough for him to see her lying there, sound asleep under the thin film of a soft, white sheet. He smiled grimly at the sight of the small black automatic on the table beside the bed. That wouldn't help her. From the back of his belt, he removed the same long, cruel blade that had been used to gut Frank Castle.

  After three deep breaths for total clarity, Sales inserted the point of the knife into the corner of the screen. Quickly, he slashed along the bottom of the door frame and then upward so he could pass easily into the room. Before Casey could awake, Sales was on top of her, bearing down with his full weight and with one hand clasped tightly across her mouth.