Twisted: The Collected Stories

by Jeffery Deaver

  “Next time,” Tribow said.

  “Next time,” she whispered cynically.

  Tribow turned away and whispered a few words to Detective Moyer. The prosecutor noticed Hartman walking toward the front door of the courtroom. He stepped forward quickly, intercepting him. “Just a second, Hartman,” Tribow said.

  “Nice try, Counselor,” the larger-than-life man said, pausing, “but you should’ve listened to me. I told you you were going to lose.”

  One of his lawyers handed Hartman an envelope. He opened it and took out his passport.

  “Must’ve cost you a lot to bribe those witnesses,” Tribow said amiably.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Hartman frowned. “That’d be a crime. As you, of all people, ought to know.”

  Viamonte leveled a finger at him and said, “You’re going to stumble and we’re going to be there when it happens.”

  Hartman replied calmly, “Not unless you’re moving to the south of France. Which is what I’m doing next week. Come visit.”

  “To help the minority community in Saint-Tropez?” Chuck Wu asked.

  Hartman offered a smile then turned toward the door.

  “Mr. Hartman,” Tribow said. “One more thing?”

  The killer turned. “What?”

  Tribow nodded to Detective Dick Moyer. He stepped forward, paused and gazed coldly into Hartman’s eyes.

  “Something you want, Officer?” the killer asked.

  Moyer gripped Hartman roughly and handcuffed him.

  “Hey, what the hell’re you doing?”

  Abrego and two of Hartman’s bodyguards stepped forward but by now a number of other police officers were next to Tribow and Moyer. The thugs backed off immediately.

  Hartman’s lawyer pushed his way to the front of the crowd. “What’s going on here?”

  Moyer ignored him and said, “Raymond Hartman, you’re under arrest for violation of state penal code section eighteen point three-one dash B. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney.” He continued the litany of the Miranda warning in a rather monotonous voice, considering the frenzy around him.

  Hartman snapped to his lawyer, “Why the hell’re you letting him do this? I’m paying you—do something!”

  This attitude didn’t sit well with the lawyer but he said, “He’s been acquitted of all charges.”

  “Actually not all charges,” Tribow said. “There was one lesser-included offense I didn’t bring him up on. Section eighteen point three one.”

  “What the hell is that?” Hartman snapped.

  His lawyer shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “You’re a goddamn lawyer. What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  Tribow said, “It’s a law that makes it a felony to have a loaded firearm within one hundred yards of a school—Sunday schools included.” He added with a modest smile, “I worked with the state legislature myself to get that one passed.”

  “Oh, no . . .” the defense lawyer muttered.

  Hartman frowned and said ominously, “You can’t do that. It’s too late. The trial’s over.”

  The lawyer said, “He can, Ray. It’s a different charge.”

  “Well, he can’t prove it,” Hartman snapped. “Nobody saw any guns. There were no witnesses.”

  “As a matter of fact there is a witness. And he happens to be one you can’t bribe or threaten.”

  “Who?”

  “You.”

  Tribow walked to the computer on which Chuck Wu had transcribed much of the testimony.

  He read, “Hartman: ‘No, I wouldn’t’ve had time to go home after church and get the game. Mass was over at noon. I got to Starbucks about ten minutes later. I told you, my house is a good twenty minutes away from the church. You can check a map. I went straight from St. Anthony’s to Starbucks.’ ”

  “What’s this all about? What’s with this goddamn game?”

  “The game’s irrelevant,” Tribow explained. “What’s important is that you said you didn’t have time to go home between leaving the church and arriving at Starbucks. That means you had to have the gun with you in church. And that’s right next to the Sunday school.” The prosecutor summarized, “You admitted under oath that you broke section eighteen thirty-one. This transcript’s admissible at your next trial. That means it’s virtually an automatic conviction.”

  Hartman said, “All right, all right. Let me pay the fine and get the hell out of here. I’ll do it now.”

  Tribow looked at his lawyer. “You want to tell him the other part of eighteen point thirty-one?”

  His lawyer shook his head. “It’s a do-time felony, Ray.”

  “What the hell’s that?”

  “It carries mandatory prison time. Minimum six months, maximum five years.”

  “What?” Terror blossomed in the killer’s eyes. “But I can’t go to prison.” He turned to his lawyer, grabbing his arm. “I told you that. They’ll kill me there. I can’t! Do something, earn your goddamn fee for a change, you lazy bastard!”

  But the lawyer pulled the man’s hand off. “You know what, Ray? Why don’t you tell your story to your new lawyer. I’m in the market for a better grade of client.” The man turned and walked out through the swinging doors.

  “Wait!”

  The detective and two other officers escorted Hartman away, shouting his protests.

  After some congratulations from the police officers and spectators, Tribow and his team returned to the prosecution table and began organizing books and papers and laptops. There was a huge amount of material to pack up; the law, after all, is nothing more or less than words.

  “Hey, boss, sleight of hand,” Chuck Wu said. “You got him focusing on that game and he didn’t think about the gun.”

  “Yeah, we thought you’d gone off the deep end,” Viamonte offered.

  “But we weren’t going to say anything,” Wu said.

  Viamonte said, “Hey, let’s go celebrate.”

  Tribow declined. He hadn’t spent much time with his wife and son lately and he was desperate to get home to them. He finished packing up the big litigation bags.

  “Thank you,” a woman’s voice said. Tribow turned to see Jose Valdez’s widow standing in front of him. He nodded. She seemed to be casting about for something else to say but then she just shook the prosecutor’s hand and she and an older woman walked out of the nearly empty courtroom.

  Tribow watched her leave.

  I guess people like that, really bad people, they don’t play by the rules. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Sometimes they’re just going to win. . . .

  But that means sometimes they’re not.

  Danny Tribow hefted the largest of the litigation bags and together the three prosecutors left the courtroom.

  THE BLANK CARD

  The little things.

  Like the way she’d leave the office at five but sometimes not get home until six-twenty.

  He knew his wife was a fast driver and could make the trip in maybe forty minutes that time of day. So where did she spend the remaining minutes?

  And little things like the phone calls.

  He’d come home and find Mary on the phone and, sure, she’d smile at him and blow him a little kiss-across-the-room. But it seemed that the tone of her voice would change as soon as she saw him and she’d hang up soon after. So Dennis would go to take a shower and pretend to forget a clean towel and call for Mary to get one for him, please, honey, and when she disappeared into the laundry room he’d go into the kitchen and debate a minute or so but then he’d go ahead and hit redial on the phone. And sometimes it turned out to be a neighbor or Mary’s mother. But sometimes nobody picked up. He remembered seeing in a movie once, about spies or something, one guy would call this other one and they’d let it ring twice then call back exactly one minute later and he knew it was safe to pick up. Dennis tried to figure out the numbers from the sound of the dialing but they went too fast.

  He’d be emba
rrassed because he was acting so paranoid. But then there’d be another little thing, and he’d get suspicious again. Like the wine. Sometimes he’d meet his wife at the door of their spacious Colonial in Westchester County, after she’d been out; he’d walk up to her fast and kiss her hard. She’d act surprised, all the passion and everything. But occasionally he’d smelled wine on her breath. She’d claim she’d been at a church fund-raising meeting at Patty’s or Kit’s. But do you drink wine at church meetings? Dennis Linden didn’t think so.

  Dennis’s suspicions of his wife smacked of midlife crisis. But they also made some sense. He was too generous—that was his problem—and the women he’d ended up with in his life had taken advantage of him. He never thought it would be that way with Mary, a sharp, ambitious businesswoman in her own right, but not long after they’d been married, five years ago, he’d started to wonder about her. Nothing big, just being cautious. Sometimes in life you have to be smart.

  But he hadn’t really found any proof until about three months ago, in late September—after Dennis had met his best buddy, Sid Farnsworth, for drinks in White Plains.

  “I don’t know, I have this feeling she’s seeing somebody,” Dennis had muttered, hunched over his V&T.

  “Who? Mary?” Sid had shook his head. “You’re nuts. She loves you.” The men had known each other since college and Sid was one of the few people who’d be completely straight with Dennis.

  “She made this big deal out of going on a business trip to San Francisco last week.”

  “Whatta you mean, made a big deal? She didn’t want to go?”

  “No, she did want to go. But I wasn’t sure it was a good idea.”

  “You thought it wasn’t a good idea?” Sid hadn’t understood. “Whatta you mean?”

  “I was worried she’d get into trouble.”

  “Why you think that?”

  “ ’Cause she’s a beautiful woman, why else? Everybody’s always flirting with her and coming on to her.”

  “Mary?” Sid had laughed. “Gimme a break. Guys flirt with women. If they don’t they’re gay or dead. But she doesn’t flirt back or anything. She’s just . . . nice. She smiles at everybody.”

  “Men take it the wrong way and then, bang, it could be a problem. I told her I didn’t want her to go.”

  Sid had sipped his beer, cautiously eyeing his friend. “Listen, Denny, you just can’t tell your wife you’re not going to let her do something. That’s bad form, man.”

  “I know, I know. I didn’t go that far. Just kind of said I didn’t want her to. And she got all upset. Why’d she have to go? Why was it so important?”

  “Duh . . . ’cause she’s a senior marketing manager and she needed to go on the trip?” Sid asked sarcastically.

  “Except she doesn’t cover the West Coast.”

  “My company has its conferences all over the country, Den. So does yours. Has nothing to do with territory . . . You thought she was going to meet somebody? A lover or something?”

  “I guess. Yeah, that’s what I was worried about.”

  “Get real.”

  “I called the hotel every night. Couple times she was out until eleven or so.”

  Sid had rolled his eyes. “What, she’s got a curfew? It was a business trip, for Christ’s sake. When you’re away, how late do you stay out?”

  “That’s different.”

  “Oh, yeah, right. Different. So why do you think she’s cheating on you?”

  Dennis had said, “Just a feeling, I guess. I mean, I don’t know why she would. Look at me. I’m only forty-five. I’m in great shape—check out this gut. Solid as a board. Not a single gray hair. I bring home a good paycheck. I take her out to dinner, movies. . . .”

  “Look, all I know is, I cut Doris some slack. She’s my wife and I trust her. Do the same with Mary.”

  “You don’t understand,” Dennis had responded sullenly. “I can’t explain it.”

  “What I understand,” Sid had laughed, “is that Mary volunteers for the Homeless Coalition, she’s on the church board, she puts together parties like Martha Stewart and she still works a full-time job. She’s a saint.”

  “Saints can sin too,” Dennis had snapped.

  Sid had whispered, “Look, you’re so worried about it, check up on her. Keep track of where she’s going, how long she’s away. Go through her receipts. Look for the little things.”

  “The little things,” Dennis repeated. He smiled. He liked that.

  “I tell you, buddy, you’re going to feel like an idiot. She’s not cheating on you.”

  But the irony was that Sid’s advice didn’t clear Mary at all—not in her husband’s mind. No, he found some little things: the trips home from work that took longer than they should have, the funny tone during phone calls, the wine on her breath. . . . All of which fueled his obsession to find out the truth.

  And now, tonight, a snowy evening two weeks before Christmas, Dennis found a big thing.

  It was five-thirty. Mary was still at work and would be late tonight because, she claimed, she had some Christmas shopping to do. Which was fine with him, honey, take all the time you want, because Dennis was ransacking their bedroom. He was searching for something that had been gnawing at him all day.

  That morning just before he’d left for work, Dennis had slipped off his shoes and walked quietly past the bedroom where Mary was getting dressed. Dennis peered into the room and saw her take a small red object out of her briefcase and quickly hide it in the bottom drawer of her dresser. He’d waited a moment then stepped into the bedroom. “How’s my tie?” he asked loudly. She’d jumped and spun around. “You scared me,” she said. But she’d recovered fast. She’d smiled and didn’t glance at either the open briefcase or the dresser.

  “Looks fine to me,” she’d said, adjusting the knot, and turned back to the closet to finish dressing.

  Dennis had left for his office. He did a little work but spent most of the day brooding, thinking about the red object in the bottom of the dresser. It didn’t help that his boss told him there was a client meeting in Boston next week, would Dennis be able to attend it? It reminded him of Mary’s trip to San Francisco and left him thinking that maybe her trip had been optional too. She probably hadn’t had to go at all. Dennis left the office early and returned home, ran upstairs and ripped open the dresser drawer.

  Whatever she’d hidden was gone.

  Had she taken it with her? Had she given it to a lover as a Christmas present?

  But, no, she hadn’t taken it; after a half hour of prowling through every conceivable hiding place in the room he found what he’d seen. It was a red Christmas card envelope, sealed. After he’d left she’d taken it out of the drawer and put it in the pocket of her black silk robe. There was no name or address on the front.

  He cradled the envelope and it seemed to him that the card was a burning ingot. His fingers stung and he could barely lift it, the cardboard square felt so heavy. He went into the bathroom and locked the door, just in case Mary came home early. He turned the envelope over and over in his hands. A dozen times. Two dozen. He studied it carefully. She hadn’t licked the flap completely; he could pry up most of it but one part was firmly fixed and he couldn’t get it open without tearing the paper.

  He dug under the wash basin and he found an old razor blade then spent a half hour carefully scraping away at the glue on the flap.

  At six-thirty, with another quarter inch of flap to go, the phone rang and for once he was actually glad to hear Mary’s voice telling him that she’d be late. She said she’d met a friend at the mall and they were going to stop for a drink on the way home. Did Dennis want to join them?

  He told her he was too tired, hung up, and hurried back to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, he scraped off the last bit of glue and with shaking hands he opened the flap.

  He pulled the card out.

  On the front was a picture of a Victorian couple, holding hands and looking out over a snowy backyard as candles gl
owed around them.

  He took a deep breath and opened the card.

  It was blank.

  And Dennis Linden understood that all his fears were true. There was only one reason to give someone a blank card. She and her lover were too afraid of being caught to write anything—even a harmless note. Hell, now that he thought about it, a blank card was far worse than an inscribed one—the understood message was of such deep love and passion that words wouldn’t convey what they felt.

  The little things . . .

  Something within his mind clicked and he knew without a doubt that Mary was seeing someone and probably had been for months.

  Who?

  Somebody at the company, he bet. How could he find out who’d gone with her to San Francisco in September? Maybe he could call the company and pretend to be somebody with an airline, asking about travel records. Or an accountant? Or he could call the men in her company phone directory . . . .

  Rage consumed him.

  Dennis tore the card into a dozen pieces, flung them across the room, then fell back on the bed and stared at the ceiling for a half hour. Trying to calm himself.

  But couldn’t. He kept replaying all the opportunities Mary’d had to cheat on him. Her church bake sales, her drives to and from work, her lunch hours, the nights she and Patty (well, she claimed it was Patty) would stay in the city after shopping and a play . . .

  The phone rang. Was it her? he wondered. He grabbed the receiver. “Yeah?”

  There was a pause. Sid Farnsworth said, “Den? You okay?”

  “Not really, no.” He explained what he’d found.

  “Just a . . . You said it was blank?”

  “Oh, you bet it was.”

  “And it wasn’t addressed to anybody?”

  “Nope. That’s the point. That’s what makes it so bad.”

  Silence. Then his friend said, “Tell you what, Den . . . I’m thinking maybe you shouldn’t be alone right now. How ’bout you meet Doris and me for a drink?”

  “I don’t want a goddamn drink. I want the truth!”

  “Okay, okay,” Sid said fast. “But you’re sounding a little freaked out, man. Let me come over, we’ll watch the game or something. Or go up the road to Joey’s.”