by Tami Hoag
End of conversation. She ignored the closing niceties, backed away from him, then headed up the stairs. She felt Greggory Urskine's eyes on her as she went.
“Uh, good night, then,” he called as she disappeared into the darkness of the second story.
She went to the room she shared with a woman whose ex-boyfriend had held her down and cut all her hair off with a hunting knife because she refused to give him her AFDC check so he could buy crack. The woman's kids were in foster care now. The boyfriend had skipped to Wisconsin. The woman had been through drug rehab and come out of it with a need to confess. Therapy did that to some people. Angie had been too smart to let it happen to her.
Don't tell your secrets, Angel. They're all that make you special.
Special. She wanted to be special. She wanted not to be alone. It didn't matter that there were other people in this house. None of them were here with her. She didn't belong. She'd been dropped here like an unwanted puppy. Fucking cops. They wanted things from her, but they didn't want to give her anything back. They didn't give a shit about her. They didn't care about what she might want from them.
At least Kate was halfway honest, Angie thought as she paced the room. But she couldn't forget that Kate was still one of them. It was Kate Conlan's job to try to wedge open her defenses so the cops and the county attorney could get what they wanted. And that would be the end of it. She wasn't really a friend. Angie could count the only friends she'd ever had on one hand and have fingers left over.
She wanted one tonight. She wanted not to be stuck in this house. She wanted to belong somewhere.
She thought of the woman burning in the park, thought of where that woman had belonged, and wondered fancifully what would happen if she just took that woman's place. She would be a rich man's daughter. She would have a father and a home and money.
She'd had a father once: She had the scars to prove it. She'd had a home: She could still smell the sour grease in the kitchen, could still remember the big, dark closets with the doors that locked from the outside. She'd never had money.
She went to bed with her clothes on and waited until the house was quiet and her roommate was snoring. Then she slipped out from under the covers and out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the house through the back door.
The night was windy. Clouds rolled across the sky so fast, it looked almost like time-lapse photography. The streets were empty except for the occasional car rolling down one of the big cross streets going north and south. Angie headed west, jittery, skittish. The feeling that she was being watched constantly scratched at the back of her neck, but when she looked over her shoulder, there was no one.
The Zone was chasing her like a shadow. If she kept walking, if she had a purpose, focused on a goal, maybe it wouldn't catch her.
The houses along the way were dark. Tree limbs rattled in the wind. When she came to the lake, it was as black and shiny as an oil slick. She stuck to the dark side of the street and walked north. People in this neighborhood would call the cops if they saw someone out walking this late at night.
She recognized the house from the news reports—like something from England with a big iron fence around it. She turned and climbed the hill to the back side of the property, the big trees giving her cover. Hedges blocked the view of the house three seasons of the year, but their leaves were gone now, and she could look through the tangle of fine branches.
A light was on inside the house, in a room with fancy glass-paned doors that let out onto a patio. Angie stood at the fence, careful not to touch it, and gazed into Peter Bondurant's backyard. She looked past the swimming pool and the stone benches and the wrought iron tables and chairs that hadn't yet been taken into storage for the winter. She looked at the amber glow in the window and the figure of a man sitting at a desk, and wondered if he felt as alone as she did. She wondered if his money gave him comfort now.
PETER ROSE FROM the desk and moved around his office, restless, tense. He couldn't sleep, refused to take the pills his doctor had prescribed and had delivered to the house. The nightmare was alive in his mind: the orange brilliance of the flames, the smell. When he closed his eyes he could see it, feel the heat of it. He could see Jillian's face: the shock, the shame, the heartbreak. He could see her face floating free, the base of her throat ragged and bloody. If his mind was filled with images like these when he was awake, what would he see if he went to sleep?
Going to the French doors, he stared out at the night, black and cold, and imagined he felt eyes staring back. Jillian. He thought he could feel her presence. The weight of it pressed against his chest as if she had wrapped her arms around him. Even after death she wanted to touch him, cling to him; desperate for love, the meaning of it for her skewed and warped.
A strange, dark arousal flickered deep inside him, followed by disgust and shame and guilt. He turned away from the window with an animal roar and flung himself at his desk, sweeping everything from the tidy surface. Pens, Rolodex, paperweights, files, appointment book. The telephone jingled a protest. The lamp hit the floor, the bulb bursting with an explosive pop!, casting the room into darkness.
The final bright flash of light remained in Peter's eyes, twin flares of orange that moved as he moved. Flames he couldn't escape. Emotion was a rock in his throat, lodged there, hard and jagged. He felt a pressure within his eyeballs, as if they might burst, and he wondered wildly if he might not still see the flames anyway.
A harsh, dry choking sound rasped from him as he stumbled in the dark to a floor lamp, tripping over the things he'd knocked from the desk. Calmer in the light, he began to pick up the mess. He put the things back one at a time, aligning them precisely. This was what he had to do: Put his life back together with seamless precision, smooth the tears in the surface and go on, just as he had when Sophie had taken Jillian and left him all those years ago.
He picked up the appointment book last and found it opened to Friday. Jillian: dinner, written in his own precise hand. It sounded so innocent, so simple. But nothing was ever simple or innocent with Jillie. No matter how hard she tried.
The phone rang, startling him from the dark memories.
“Peter Bondurant,” he said as if this were normal business hours. In the back of his mind he was trying to remember if he'd been expecting a call from overseas.
“Daddy dearest,” the voice sang softly, seductively. “I know all your secrets.”
13
CHAPTER
“WE'RE GOING TO look like asses if we have to release another composite,” Sabin complained, prowling behind his desk. His lower lip jutted out like a sulky two-year-old's, an odd contrast to the sharp sophistication of his image. Ready to deal with the press at a moment's notice, he had decked himself out in a pewter-gray suit with a tie two shades darker and a French-blue shirt. Very dapper.
“I don't see how it reflects badly on your office, Ted,” Kate said. “Chief Greer was the one who jumped the gun.”
He frowned harder and gave her a meaningful look. “I know whose fault this is.”
“You can't blame the witness,” Kate said, knowing full well he meant to blame her.
“I'm told she's not been very cooperative,” Edwyn Noble said with concern, wedging his way into the discussion. He sat in a visitor's chair, his body too long for it, the legs of his dark trousers hiking up above bony ankles and nylon socks.
Kate stared at him, half a dozen stinging remarks on the tip of her tongue, not the least of which was “What the hell are you doing here?” Of course, she knew what he was doing there. His presence skirted the bounds of propriety, but she had already run the argument through her head and knew what the outcome would be. The county attorney's office ran victim/witness services. Peter Bondurant was the immediate family of a victim—if the dead woman proved to be his daughter—and therefore entitled to be kept informed as to the disposition of the case. Edwyn Noble was Bondurant's envoy. Et cetera, et cetera.
She looked at Noble as if he were some
thing she might scrape off her shoe. “Yes, well, there's always some of that going around.”
The insinuation struck the bull's-eye. Noble sat up a little straighter in the too-small chair, his eyes going cold.
Rob Marshall moved between them as peacemaker, the bootlicker's grin stretching across his moon face. “What Kate means is that it's not unusual for a witness to such a brutal crime to become a little reluctant.”
Sabin huffed. “She's not reluctant for the reward money.”
“The reward will go out only upon conviction,” Noble reminded them, as if it would take his client that long to scrape the cash together. As if Bondurant might be half hoping to get out of it altogether.
“This office does not buy witnesses,” Sabin proclaimed. “I told you I wanted her dealt with, Kate.”
He made her sound like a paid assassin. “I am dealing with her.”
“Then why did she not spend Monday night in jail? I told Kovac to treat her like a suspect. Scare her a little.”
“But you—” Kate began, confused.
Rob gave her a warning look. “We still have that option in our pocket, Ted. Trying Phoenix House first might soften her up, give the girl the impression that Kate is on her side. I'm sure that's what you had in mind, isn't it, Kate?”
She glared at her boss, openmouthed.
Sabin was pouting. “Now this sketch fiasco.”
“It's not a fiasco. No one should've seen the sketch yesterday,” Kate argued, turning away from Rob before she could go for his throat. “Ted, you pressure this kid, she'll walk. Get tough with her, she'll develop a real mean case of amnesia. I guarantee it. You and I both know you have nothing to hold her on with relation to the murder. You couldn't even get her arraigned. A judge would bounce it out of the courtroom like a Super Ball, and you'd be left with egg on your face and no witness.”
He rubbed his chin as if he already felt the yoke drying. “She's a vagrant. That's against the law.”
“Oh, yeah, that'll look good in the papers. Teenage Murder Witness Charged for Homelessness. Next time you run for office, you can bill yourself as the Simon Legree candidate.”
“My political life is not an issue here, Ms. Conlan,” he snapped, suddenly stiff and steely-eyed. “Your handling of this witness is.”
Rob looked at Kate with an expression that questioned her sanity. Kate looked to Edwyn Noble. Not an issue. In a pig's eye.
She could have pushed Sabin a little now and gotten herself reassigned. She could have confessed a total inability to deal with this witness and been out from under the burden that was Angie DiMarco. But the second Kate thought it, she saw herself leaving the girl at the mercy of the assembled wolves, and couldn't do it. The memory was too fresh of Angie standing in the ratty den at the Phoenix, sudden tears in her eyes, asking Kate why she couldn't go home with her.
She rose, discreetly smoothing the wrinkles from the front of her skirt. “I'm doing my best to get the truth out of this girl. I know that's everyone's goal. Give me a chance to work her my way, Ted. Please.” She wasn't above giving him the hopeful, wide-eyed look if it would sway his mood. He didn't have to fall for it if he didn't want to. The word mercenary crawled through her mind, leaving a small trail of slime.
“She's not the kid next door,” she went on. “She's had a tough life and it's made her a tough person, but I think she wants to do the right thing here. It won't do anyone any good to get impatient at this stage of the game. If you want corroboration of my opinion, ask Quinn. He knows as much about dealing with witnesses in this kind of case as I do,” Kate said, thinking turnabout was fair play. John owed her one. At least.
Noble cleared his throat politely. “What about hypnosis? Will you try that?”
Kate shook her head. “She'll never go for it. Hypnosis requires trust. This kid hasn't got any. Oscar's as mystical as she's going to sit still for.”
“I hate to play devil's advocate,” the attorney said, unfolding himself from the chair, “but how are we to know the girl saw anything at all? It sounds to me as if she's the type to do anything for money. Perhaps the reward is her only goal.”
“And she set her sights on that goal before she knew it would even exist?” Kate said. “If that's the case, then she's worth more than she ever was to this case because she'd have to be psychic. No reward was offered after the first two murders.”
She glanced at her watch and swore under her breath. “I'm afraid you gentlemen will have to excuse me. I have to be at a hearing in a few minutes and my victim's probably already panicking because I'm not there.”
Sabin had come around the desk to lean back against it with his arms crossed and his stern face on. Kate recognized the pose from the profile Minnesota Monthly had done on him a year earlier. Not that she discounted his power or his willingness to use it. Ted Sabin hadn't gotten where he was by being anybody's fool or pretty boy.
“I'll give you more time with this girl, Kate.” He made it sound as if he were doing so grudgingly, even though the whole arrangement had been his idea. “But we need results, and we need them quickly. I thought you of all the advocates in your office would understand that.”
“She's working with Oscar again this afternoon,” she said, moving toward the door.
Sabin came away from his desk and walked with her, resting his hand between her shoulder blades. “You'll be through in court in time to be there with her?”
“Yes.”
“Because I'm sure Rob can juggle something and have someone else take care of this hearing.”
“No, sir. The hearing won't take long,” she promised with a pained smile. “Besides, I wouldn't wish this particular client on any of my colleagues. They know where I live.”
“Maybe we should have Agent Quinn sit in on this session with Oscar and the girl,” he suggested.
The hand on her back had a knife in it suddenly.
“I don't see how that would be helpful.”
“No, you were right, Kate,” he argued. “This witness isn't ordinary. And as you said, Quinn has a great deal of experience. He might be able to pick up on something, suggest a strategy. I'll call him.”
Kate stepped out the door and stood there as it closed behind her. “Me and my big mouth.”
“Kate—” Rob Marshall began in a low voice. Kate wheeled on him as he slipped out into the hall.
“You weasel,” she accused in a harsh whisper. It was all she could do to keep from grabbing him by the ears and shaking him. “You gave me the go-ahead to take Angie to the Phoenix. Now you stand in there and give Sabin the impression it was all my doing! I thought you'd cleared it with him. That's what I told Kovac. And I accused Kovac of being paranoid for not trusting it.”
“I broached the subject of the Phoenix with him—”
“But he didn't go for it.”
“He didn't say no.”
“Well, he sure as hell didn't say yes.”
“He had his mind on other things. I knew taking her there was how you would want to play it, Kate.”
“Don't try to put this off on me. You took some initiative for a change. Can't you at least own up to it?”
He breathed heavily through his too-short nose and his face turned a dull red. “Kate, does it ever cross your mind that I'm your superior?”
She closed her mouth on the rejoinder that came to mind, and scraped together what respect she could. “I'm sorry. I'm angry.”
“And I'm your boss. I'm in charge,” he said. She could hear the frustration in his voice.
“I don't envy you that job,” she said dryly. “I ought to really antagonize you. You could take me off this powder keg. But I don't want off it,” she admitted. “Must be the Swedish masochist in me.”
“You're exactly who I want with this witness, Kate,” he said. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and smiled like a man with a toothache. “Now who's the masochist?”
“I'm sorry. I don't like being made to feel like a pawn, that's all.”
&n
bsp; “Focus on the outcome. We got what we wanted.”
His relationship with Sabin was intact. Her apparent overstepping of boundaries would be written off to her well-known arrogance, Sabin would forgive her because he had the hots for her, and Rob came off looking like a diplomat, if not a leader. Once again the end justified the means. Nothing hurt but her pride.
“I'm not averse to conspiracy, you know,” she said, still miffed. She'd had every intention of stealing Angie away from Sabin's clutches, and she would never in a million years have let Rob Marshall in on the plan. That was what was really grating on her—that Rob had one-upped her. She never wanted to think he was more clever than her or more shrewd or her superior in any way. A hell of an attitude to have toward her boss.
“Have you heard anything back from your friends in Wisconsin yet?” she asked.
“Nothing yet.”
“It'd be nice to know who the hell this kid is. I feel like I'm working with a blindfold on.”
“I've got the videotape of Angie's interviews,” he said, setting his hands at his middle. “I thought it might be helpful to sit down together and go over it. Maybe we could bring Quinn into that too. I'd like to hear his opinion.”
“Yeah, why not?” Kate said, resigning herself. “Let me know when you set it up. I have to get to court.”
Some days it just seemed the better option to stay home and hit her thumb with a hammer. At least that was a pain from which she could easily recover. John Quinn was another matter altogether.
“I WAS AFRAID you weren't coming,” David Willis said with no small amount of accusation. He rushed up to Kate as she made her way around the knots of lawyers in the hall outside the criminal courtrooms.
“I'm sorry I'm late, Mr. Willis. I was in a meeting with the county attorney.”
“About my case?”
“No. Everything is ready to go for your case.”
“I'm not going to have to testify, right?”
“Not today, Mr. Willis.” Kate steered her client toward the courtroom. “This is just a hearing. The prosecutor, Mr. Merced, will be presenting just enough evidence to have the court bind Mr. Zubek over for trial.”