“No one saw you go anywhere.”
“Have you checked all the security footage in the hotel?”
“Clearing you is not our job. You’re the only suspect we have and we intend to charge you with murder.”
Her chest tightened in a painful squeeze, and she shouted, “Meanwhile the actual killer is getting away.”
“The fact that you used to be law enforcement doesn’t impress me.” Warzog came around to her side of the table and squeezed her shoulder. Lara wanted to hit him. She locked her jaw and forced herself to breathe deeply.
“This should be an easy case,” Warzog said. He leaned in with his face so close she could smell the bacon grease in his pores. “If you make us work for this conviction, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
“Maybe you should investigate. You might be surprised at what you come up with.”
Warzog grabbed her chin in his meaty hand and squeezed. “I hate a smart ass.”
Lara glanced around to see if a camera was in place, but even if it was, Warzog had probably shut it off.
He put a recorder on the table. “I want a confession. Don’t make me hurt you.”
The door burst open and a younger, suited man rushed in. The briefcase in his hand made Lara apprehensive.
“I’m Mark Harris, assistant DA.” He grabbed the third chair and sat, but acted like a man who didn’t plan to stay long. “I can offer you aggravated manslaughter on a plea deal. We accept that you may not have meant to kill Kirsten when you stunned her. This deal works well for both of us.”
Lara understood that the offer of a deal meant their case was weaker than they wanted. What had they found out? “Did you get the autopsy results? How did Kirsten really die?”
“This deal is a take-it-or-leave-it proposition.” The DA pushed papers across the table. “If you don’t sign this, we’ll charge you with murder and book you into jail. The case against you is solid.”
Lara pushed the papers back. “I didn’t stun Kirsten and I’m not pleading guilty to anything.” Her stomach growled loud enough for them to hear.
“Why didn’t you eat your sandwich?” the DA asked, looking at the untouched food. “Feeling guilty?”
“It’s not in my program. I’d like a can of V8.”
Warzog laughed. “This ain’t a restaurant.” He stood and so did the DA. “Lara Evans, you’re under arrest for the murder of Kirsten Dornberg. Stand up and turn around.”
Lara’s heart sank as she let him cuff her.
“Anything you say, can and will be used against you…”
Lara tuned him out, breathing from her stomach to keep herself calm. She had to think straight. At the jail, they would let her make a call and she had to decide who to contact. If she called Jackson, he would probably be able to find a lawyer who would help her. But if she called the employment commissioner, he might post her bail to keep her from talking. Did she have even a chance of staying in the competition?
The next morning at the jail, she was strip-searched, fingerprinted, and booked into custody. Lara knew the process well, but hadn’t been on this side of it since she was a teenager. Growing up in Fairbanks, Alaska, there hadn’t been much for young people to do, so she’d partied, shoplifted, and vandalized a few things just to burn off excess energy and satisfy her craving for adrenaline. Eventually, she’d spent a night in jail, then gone home to a beating. She’d left her family soon after, caught a ferry to Seattle, and hadn’t seen her parents until her brother’s funeral twenty years later. In retrospect, she realized her attraction to law enforcement had been about taming her inner beast. She wasn’t good at finding middle ground, and wearing a cop uniform made more sense than an inmate jumpsuit.
A chubby female deputy with a red birthmark under her eye walked Lara to a large holding area and allowed her to use a small NetCom retrofitted into a wall. Jails had been the last institutions to give up old-style landlines. The gray-green walls were filthy and benches lined the perimeter. Two women, both dark-skinned and in their early twenties, sat opposite the NetCom and argued about the events of their evening. Three other women, dressed in the dirty layers of the homeless, watched her with appraising eyes. The D.C. jail was infamous for inmate stabbings, and Lara knew she would have to watch her back every moment.
She keyed in the commissioner’s number, which she now knew by heart. He didn’t answer, so she left him another message: “Lara Evans again. I’ve been charged with murder and booked into the D.C. Corrections Department. I have an arraignment this afternoon. Please bail me out if you can. I need to stay in the competition.”
After three hours of intermittent sitting and pacing, while the two young women kept up their nonstop conversation, the deputy came back, handcuffed Lara, and walked her upstairs to a lobby outside a courtroom. Her legs felt like lead and she was hungrier than she’d ever been. The double doors were open, and pretrial hearings were in session in front of a packed courtroom. A middle-aged woman in a rumpled pantsuit sat on a bench waiting for them.
“This is Mildred Arbuckle,” the deputy said. “She’s your public defender. You have ten minutes before the judge calls your name.” The deputy took a seat on the bench. Lara and her lawyer moved as far away as they could.
“A murder charge is very serious.” Mildred’s bushy eyebrows arched over her glasses. “Tell me what happened.”
“I’m a contestant in the Gauntlet, and I—”
“I know. I love the program. I asked to take this case.” Mildred smiled and some of the age disappeared from her face.
“I was Kirsten’s roommate, and I won our round of the Challenge. I got back to the room first, and she came in a couple hours later. She’d been drinking and picked a fight by grabbing my hair. I knocked her down to put a stop to it. Then I went out for a run. When I came back, she was dead.”
“Why did they charge you?”
“Because Kirsten had stun gun marks on her chest, and I had a Taser in my luggage.”
“That’s all they have?”
“They have a video of our fight. Kirsten is alive and well until the camera shuts off at eight.”
“We have to get you out on bail so you can get back to the competition. Will the Gauntlet organizers post a bond?”
“If they think it’s good for ratings. But will the judge grant it?”
“We’ll push for it.” Mildred patted her leg and Lara tried not to flinch. She hated when strangers touched her. Mildred looked at her over her glasses. “Anything else I should know?”
“I was a cop for sixteen years, most of it as a homicide detective. I’m one of the good guys.”
“Excellent. Let’s go.”
They waited for a pause in the activity, then strode up to the front bench and took a seat. The judge was female, African-American, and fifty-something. Lara hoped it would work in her favor, but she knew better than to assume.
After a minute, the court clerk called her name and read the charges: aggravated assault and first-degree homicide. The judge asked Lara to stand. “How do you plead?”
“Not guilty.” Lara had never imagined herself in this position.
“Anything else before we set a pretrial hearing?” The judge glanced at her lawyer.
Mildred hustled forward to stand next to Lara. “My client was a law enforcement officer for sixteen years and has no criminal record. She’s currently a contestant in the Gauntlet, representing the state of Oregon, and she intends to finish the contest in plain view of millions. She is not a flight risk.” Mildred shook her head and raised her voice. “My client is also completely innocent of these trumped-up charges, which I expect to have dropped before the day is over. I recommend that bail be set low and granted.”
The judge stared at Mildred. “Why would a murder charge be dropped?”
“The victim was hit with a stun gun, which typically doesn’t result in death. Whoever assaulted the victim probably didn’t intend to kill her. Furthermore, my client was not present at the time.”
“Bail is set at a hundred thousand dollars with the stipulation that the defendant be monitored electronically. The date of your pretrial hearing is set for June 12th at 9:00 a.m.” The judge stood and looked at the next defendant. “I’ll be back after a quick break.”
Lara turned to her lawyer. “Thank you. That came out better than I expected.”
“You’re welcome. Now go kick some ass in that contest. All women of a certain age are counting on you.”
The deputy escorted Lara back to the holding area and said she’d be moved into a cell as soon as one opened up. As much as Lara wanted to get away from the chatter in the pen, she dreaded walking into a cell and hearing the door close behind her.
An hour later, the deputy returned. “Someone posted bail for you. Let’s go get your possessions.”
Chapter 16
Five months earlier: Tues., Jan. 10
Paul stood in front of the bathroom mirror and peeled the wide white bandage off his nose. He turned his head from side to side, trying to visualize how he would look when all the swelling went down. His long-hated bump was gone and the entire ridge was narrower. The tip of his nose had been reduced too, so now it didn’t hang over his upper lip. The surgeon had taken the stents out earlier that day, the worst pain of the whole experience. Paul had given in and taken a pain pill and now he felt a little queasy.
He leaned in closer to the mirror. He still had faint bruising under his eyes, but otherwise the only evidence of his surgery was a tiny incision in the cartilage between his nostrils. Paul was disappointed that it would take a few weeks for the final result to emerge from the swelling, but it was worth the wait. Tomorrow he would go back to work and Camille would get her first glimpse of the new Paul. Well, her second glimpse. He’d already lost fifteen pounds.
The next morning after he passed through the metal detectors, the security guard gave him a second look, suppressed a smile, and motioned him on. Why was she smiling? Paul cringed in shame. Would everyone be amused by his cosmetic changes? No one made fun of women for getting work done. Paul stepped on the elevator and willed himself to relax. In another few months, the guard would be looking him over with lust as he came through. The thought made him smile.
Five minutes after he settled into work, Camille rushed into his office. “I want to see how you look.” He’d told her about the procedure when he’d explained why he was taking a week off. She pulled up a chair near him. Heat rushed through his body when her knee bumped his. She’d never sat this close before.
“It’s still swollen, isn’t it?”
“Yes. We won’t see the final results for another few weeks. But it’s already better.”
“Turn your head a little.”
Paul pivoted, proud of his profile for the first time.
“Oh yes. The bump is gone.” Camille studied him the same way the doctor had. “It looks good. What did it cost you? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Paul did mind. “I’d rather not say. I’ve been saving for it for a long time.”
“That’s okay.” She laughed softly. “I can get an approximation in thirty seconds on the net.”
Paul smiled. “It was worth it. I’ve hated my nose for as long as I can remember.”
“It’s going to be cute.” She leaned in. “Can I tell you a secret?”
Little fireworks went off in Paul’s chest. “Of course.”
“I had my eyebrows done three years ago.”
“What do you mean? Your face is perfect.” He realized he’d only been working with Camille for a year and a half.
“My eyebrows were droopy, so I had an arch put in.”
Paul knew she was only thirty-three so all he said was, “You look fantastic.”
“Thanks. My mother gave me a lot of grief about it. She thinks I’m vain.”
“Nonsense. You just want to look your best, so it’s money well spent.” Paul experienced a rush of camaraderie, something he hadn’t had since college. “My foster mother just wants me to be happy. She was very supportive about my surgery.”
Camille squeezed his arm. “I’m happy for you too.”
Paul seized his opportunity. “Would you like to have lunch today? I’ll tell you some of the weird details.”
Only a slight hesitation. “Yes. I’d like that. Let’s meet at Thai Palace again at twelve-thirty.”
At lunch, Camille talked about her previous job as a program host and the pressure she’d been under to look perfect. Her eventual layoff had devastated her. He mentioned getting his teeth capped and she gave him the name of a cosmetic dentist. They walked back to the federal building together, moving quickly to get out of the bitter cold, then Camille hurried off to speak with someone on the first floor. Paul took the elevator up to the third floor and encountered his boss as he stepped off.
“How was your vacation week?” Stacia asked. Her eyes darted over his face, trying to decide what was different.
“Good, thanks. Are we meeting as usual this afternoon?”
“Briefly. But while you were out, a Congressional budget committee ordered another round of pay-grade assessments, so we have a lot to accomplish this month.” Stacia started to move past him, then turned back. “You look good, Paul. Are you working out?”
“I am. Thanks for noticing.”
He had a little bounce in his step as he walked to his small office near the bathrooms. Not only was no one laughing at his nose, women were actually noticing him! He decided to stay after work and scan the replacement database again. If he had another twenty thousand, he could get his teeth capped and a chin implant. A real chin would make the difference he was looking for. Maybe then Camille would become his girlfriend and he’d have sex for only the third time in his life.
Frustrated with his lack of progress, Paul glanced at the time on the corner of his screen: 6:06 p.m. He would need to leave soon if he didn’t want to explain to anyone why he was working so late. Hungry and tired, he took his third diet pill for the day and decided to give the search fifteen more minutes.
He’d spent most of his time searching the replacement database for someone who would be receptive to an offer of advancement. In theory, that could be almost any employee, but Paul wanted to narrow the risk and approach someone with known qualities. He’d come up with a list of seven possibilities, but none seemed ideal. Paul decided to switch tactics and search for someone vulnerable to getting fired. That was the trickier part of the mission anyway.
Moments later, he stared at the file of Robert Morales, who worked for the Department of Energy. The DOE had nearly been eliminated during the great downsizing of 2017, but a civil war in Iran led to even less oil on the market, forcing Congress to shrink the department instead of cutting it. The Department of Education and dozens of others had not fared so well.
As a deputy inspector general, Morales was in charge of audits and inspections. Allegations said he’d been taking bribes in exchange for burying the paperwork of companies that didn’t meet requirements. Without direct testimony, the case would be hard to prove, so Paul expected the DOE was looking for another reason to fire him. Maybe he could provide them with one. Paul was relieved to find someone who deserved to lose his job. He didn’t want to experience any guilt this time.
As he opened Morales’ list of replacements, his iCom beeped. He didn’t recognize the number, but felt an urgent impulse to answer. He touched the tiny receiver in his ear. “Hello.”
“Paul Madsen?”
“Yes.”
“This is George Howard Hospital. We found your number in Isabel Turner’s iCom. She’s had a heart attack, and we’re trying to contact her family.”
No! Cold fingers of dread wrapped around Paul’s heart and squeezed. For a moment he couldn’t speak.
“Are you there?”
“Yes. What is her condition? Is she conscious?”
“Off and on, but she’s critical and we think you should come now.”
“I’m on my way.”
Chapter 17
Paul hurried down the hall to the critical care unit. He pushed the access button and waited for a nurse in pink scrubs to open the double metal doors and admit him.
“I’m here to see Isabel Turner.”
“I’m Nina,” said the coffee-skinned woman with tiny doll-like features. “Are you Paul Madsen?”
“Yes. How is she?”
“There’s been no change. But your mother is conscious at the moment.” Paul didn’t correct her. As far as he was concerned, Isabel was his mother, even though he’d never called her that. He was grateful she was old enough to have a med card, but she was enrolled in the new Medicare and her voucher only afforded a skimpy coinsurance policy.
They moved past several rooms, all with elderly patients who looked near death. Paul’s fear deepened. “Will she recover?”
“We don’t know.”
The nurse stepped through the doorway to room 302 and said, “Isabel, your son is here.”
Paul moved to the bed and reached for Isabel’s hand. Her eyes were closed and it scared him. The hospital gown, the tube in her nose, the slack grayish skin—for the first time he saw his foster mother as an old woman. “I came as quickly as I could.”
“Paul.” The word was barely a whisper.
He fought back tears as he struggled for what to say. He wanted to be positive, but not ridiculous. “I love you. I need you in my life. Stay strong.”
She opened her eyes. “I don’t feel strong.”
“You’ll get better.” Paul pulled up a chair. “Tell me what happened.”
“I was walking home from the senior center, then I woke up here.” She seemed to draw strength from his presence, and her voice became clearer.
“Have you been taking your meds?” Isabel was on three maintenance prescriptions for metabolic disease, but now that dementia had started to set in, she sometimes forgot to take them.
The Arranger Page 11