by Randy Singer
"Are you sure?" said Gates, as if he already had the lie detector hooked up.
Catherine stared him down. "I'm sure."
* * *
On the way home, Catherine decided it had been a mistake to agree to meet with the men. In addition to asking her to take a polygraph, Gates had asked her about alibis for the nights of the kidnappings. Unfortunately, she had been alone both nights.
When she was nearly home, Jamarcus called and tried to put her mind at ease. "They had to give you a hard time," he said. "You stung their pride when you beat that contempt citation at the Virginia Supreme Court. Plus, they had to be sure you weren't just rubbing their noses in it."
"Why would I do that?"
"They can't figure that out. It's why they tend to believe you."
"They have a funny way of showing it."
"Don't be surprised if they ask you to come back," Jamarcus said. "They may want you to work with a behavioral psychologist who's in charge of profiling our bad guy. If we catch this guy, you could have your own television show."
"Spare me," Catherine said. But she did feel a little better after Jamarcus's call. Later that afternoon, she headed to the beach and played volleyball with some friends. It was the first time in nearly a week that she was able to take her mind off the Avenger of Blood.
25
When Quinn finally strolled into the office at 9:30 Monday morning, Melanie pounced. Though Quinn's young assistant could be annoying at times, he still considered her one of the three smartest persons in the sixty-lawyer firm of Robinson, Charles, and Espinoza, behind only Robert Espinoza and Quinn himself, not necessarily in that order. Though Melanie had dropped out of college to get married, she still possessed twice the street smarts of most lawyers in the firm, their diplomas from the big-name California law schools notwithstanding.
"You're up to twenty-six unreturned phone calls," Melanie announced as Quinn tried to slide past her desk. She handed him the telephone slips. "The top four are potential new clients. Eleven media calls are next. On the bottom are calls from other lawyers and bill collectors."
Quinn grabbed the pink slips, his schedule for the day, and a printout that showed the billed and collected numbers for the firm's attorneys. On top of everything else, he knew his unanswered e-mails could easily be in the hundreds.
"And Mr. Espinoza said he wanted to see you as soon as you arrived," Melanie said. "He asked me to call him."
"About what?" Quinn asked, though he already knew. Managing partners cared about two things: billable hours and collections. With Annie's case dominating his year, Quinn had done just fine on billable hours. Collections were another matter. If Quinn lost his sister's case, she would be ineligible as a beneficiary of her husband's estate, including his life insurance proceeds. If Annie had been any other client, Quinn would have resigned by now.
Quinn took his seat and started working through his e-mails. He had fired off at least ten responses by the time Espinoza came in and closed the door. The sixty-year-old attorney with salt-and-pepper hair, an angular face, and a long pointed nose took a seat on the other side of Quinn's desk.
"You know why I'm here?"
Quinn shrugged. "This?" He tossed the firm's latest billing and collections report on his desk. "You know I'll hit my numbers again as soon as Annie's case is over. She's my sister, Robert. I can't just leave her hanging."
"I'm not asking you to drop the case, Quinn. But I am worried about the rest of your files. You used to do a lot of white-collar stuff. I've been watching the new file list lately. It's a lot of insanity plea work." He said it with disdain, as if Quinn had a lineup of clients in straitjackets right outside his office door. "Can these folks even pay?"
Quinn shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn't like lying to his managing partner. "I'll make it work somehow. Work a few more hours. Only accept rich crazy folks." He tried the famous Newberg grin, but it didn't seem infectious this morning. Maybe he should rely on his track record--six strong years as an associate and two even stronger years as a partner. "Have I ever missed my numbers for an entire year, Robert?"
"No. And that's what's got me worried now." Espinoza crossed his legs, obviously trying to keep it casual. "Quinn, I think what you're doing is great work. Somebody's got to take these cases. But the other partners are grousing. Your comp is tied to your white-collar work. Plus, they're worried about the reputation of the firm."
At this, Quinn laughed. "That white-collar work, as you describe it, is about 90 percent mob work. Interesting how nobody cared much about the reputation of the firm as long as the bills got paid."
Espinoza frowned. "You remember Dennis Rodman in the NBA?"
"Sure."
"Well, nobody cared about how many tattoos he had or whether he was into cross-dressing as long as he got his rebounds. But you know what happened when he stopped getting his rebounds, Quinn?"
"They turned him into a point guard?"
"Not quite. He became trade bait." Espinoza stood. "So here's what I need you to do. Beat the heck out of Carla Duncan. Get a unanimous not guilty verdict for your sister. But make your numbers, Quinn. I want you around this firm a long time. But your partners aren't willing to subsidize someone to represent the mentally insane, no matter how famous you become."
Quinn had a thousand retorts but knew how the game was played. Espinoza was managing partner. Espinoza got the last word. To this point, Quinn had only been worried about paying his experts and the consultants in Annie's case. But now his own partners were grousing about the firm's unpaid legal bills, most of which were comprised of Quinn's own work. They would never fire Quinn, not with the name recognition he had brought to the firm. But Espinoza had delivered his message. Getting famous was no substitute for his partners getting rich.
When Espinoza left, Quinn leafed through his reports and found the totals for Annie's case. The legal bills alone, not counting consultants and experts, totaled more than three hundred thousand. Not a single dime of the attorneys' fees had been paid.
26
On Tuesday morning, Catherine had second thoughts about meeting with the criminal profiler, even though she had called Jamarcus on Monday and told him she would. Officially, this was still a kidnapping investigation, though the entire public now assumed the infants had already been murdered. On Monday, police had released the content of both notes, stunning the public just like the notes had stunned Catherine, who now felt like she had met Hannibal Lecter face-to-face in her prison cell.
At 8:30 on Tuesday, two hours prior to the scheduled meeting, she decided to bite the bullet and call Marc Boland. She hated the thought of forking over an additional three hundred an hour just to get some advice on whether she should call off the meeting, but she was growing increasingly uncomfortable. This was her life. And this meeting could now be part of a serial murder investigation.
Unfortunately, Bo was on his way to a court appearance, but his assistant promised to reach him on his cell phone. He didn't return the call until 10:15, and Catherine was already on her way down General Booth Boulevard, heading to the commonwealth attorney's office.
She told Bo everything about the two visions in the cell and her meeting with the chief of police, Gates, and Jamarcus Webb on Sunday.
"They wanted you to take a lie detector test?" Bo asked incredulously.
"Yes."
She heard Bo grunt his disapproval. "And they asked about alibis?"
"Yes."
"And now they want you to spend an hour or two with their criminal profile expert to allegedly tap into your psychic ability to channel this criminal?"
"Well, they didn't phrase it that way. They wanted me to describe these visions to this profiler and see if it might help him."
"And you bought this?" Bo asked. "You really think they're after your expertise?"
The question made Catherine feel stupid, as well as a little defensive. "Bo, I saw two visions, including handwriting on a wall that tracked almost word for word the no
tes this Avenger of Blood sent to his victims."
"My point exactly," Bo responded. "Which means they believe one of two things: either your confidential source told you what those notes said or you are somehow involved in the kidnappings."
"That's ridiculous," Catherine said. And doubly ridiculous that I'm paying you three hundred bucks an hour to suggest it.
"Why didn't you call me before you met with them the first time, Catherine? If you pull out now, it'll look like you're trying to hide something."
Catherine hesitated but then decided she was tired of lying just so she wouldn't hurt people's feelings. "I couldn't afford to call you, Bo. I'm a reporter. I don't know how I'm going to pay you for what you've already done."
"This one's on me," Bo said, his voice going soft.
"Bo . . ." Catherine appreciated the gesture but hated being a charity case.
"I just want to make sure you don't get caught in the middle of this," Bo said. "There's a ton of pressure on the cops right now to make an arrest. If they can't get their man, they'll be looking for a good scapegoat. Let's not give them a reason to make it you."
This entire conversation frightened Catherine. Until now, she had been assuming the best, hoping this would all go away. Maybe she could even help them find the kidnapper. At worst, she might send them on a wild-goose chase. But now she was a suspect?
"Should I call off the meeting?" Catherine asked.
"No," Bo counseled. "You should let me call off the meeting. I'll tell them you wanted to help but I wouldn't let you. If they need to know specific facts, they can communicate through me. That's what lawyers are for--we like being the bad guys."
"Thanks." Catherine felt like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. "But you're not going to do this for free."
"We'll talk about that later," said Bo. And before Catherine could protest, he was off the line.
Ten minutes later he called back. "You're off the hook," he said. "I didn't make any friends, but it's the right call."
Catherine felt like she could breathe again. "Thanks," she managed.
"No problem. But this isn't going away. We need to meet in my office."
The urgency in his voice worried Catherine. "What's up?"
"This is a ploy to get you to rat out your source," Bo said. "They build a flimsy case against you as a suspect, then force you to divulge your source so you can explain how you came across this information."
"But I told you; I didn't get this information from my source."
"All the more reason we need to talk. And not on a cell phone."
27
Paul Donaldson found the envelope in his mailbox. It contained no postmark but was addressed to him and marked "personal." When he opened it, he found a cryptic note composed of words cut out from various magazines. "Your lover is having an affair. If you want to know more, meet me in the back corner of the Hooters parking lot on West Broad Street at 11 p.m. Bring five hundred dollars and no weapons. Learn the name of the mystery man! Come alone."
The envelope also contained two pictures. The photos were dark and grainy, but Donaldson could tell that the woman was Rachel and that she was draped all over another man. Both pictures were taken from behind the man, so the back of the skinny runt's head was all Donaldson could see.
He studied the pictures carefully to see if this could possibly be airbrushed or whatever it was they did to doctor pictures these days. He analyzed the details for a few minutes, trying to figure out what bar the pictures had been taken in.
He fumed at the thought of Rachel's unfaithfulness, his rage so full that his hand literally began to shake. After everything he had done for her--how could she betray him? humiliate him in public like this? He had been faithful. He had bought her things. Kept her in clothes. Fed her drug habits. He had sacrificed so much to keep her happy.
Now this?
How could he have let himself fall for a woman this deceptive? As he stood there considering the treachery, his humiliation and anger turned into a blinding rage. He conjured up thoughts of spectacular revenge. He would cut off this man's head, then leave it on Rachel's side of the bed, Godfather-style. He would kill them both together so they could burn in hell with each other forever. He wanted to make an example of her, to somehow make her hurt even more than she had hurt him.
But he was just dreaming. None of that was really possible. He had beaten the system once. This time he would have to be careful, more subtle. He would find out the identity of Rachel's lover and kill the man. In an out-of-the-way place, he would show Rachel the man's dead corpse and watch her reaction. And after she begged him to forgive her, Donaldson would kill Rachel too.
He would dispose of the bodies far away from Richmond, Virginia. And he would be careful to leave no evidence.
First he needed the lover's name. Next he would have to kill the person who took these photos. He couldn't risk the possibility that this photographer would have a fit of conscience after finding out that Rachel and her lover had disappeared. The photographer might go to the police.
Donaldson walked from his mailbox to his car and slid the envelope under the driver's seat. Before he left, he would sheath his knife in his favorite pair of boots and tuck a gun in his waistband. He would down a few brews--not enough to slow him down, just enough to lower his inhibitions a notch or two. He would show up at Hooters a few minutes after eleven, nine hours from now.
He hadn't asked for this fight, but he wasn't going to run from it. Nobody made a fool of Paul Donaldson and lived to tell about it.
* * *
Marc Boland was all business, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, when Catherine showed up at his office that afternoon. He offered Catherine a glass of water with ice and poured himself one as well, then sat across from her at a round table in the corner of his office. As they talked, he took notes on a yellow legal pad and gently asked probing questions in his soft Southern drawl.
Catherine told him the story of the visions. He asked the usual questions about whether she could make out any features on the hooded figure, and she gave the usual answers assuring him that she could not. He asked detailed questions about her whereabouts on the days and nights surrounding the abduction of the Carver twins and Rayshad Milburn. He frowned as he realized she had no alibis that would hold water.
After nearly forty-five minutes, Bo studied his legal pad for an inordinate length of time, looked up, and lowered his eyebrows. "I believe every word you've told me, Catherine, but we've got to prepare for the commonwealth's attorney's approach to these same facts. To do that, I'll have to ask a few questions that will make you uncomfortable. Remember, our conversations are absolutely protected by the attorney-client privilege. Okay?"
Bo was already making Catherine uncomfortable, but she nodded anyway. "Sure."
"The morning after these two kidnappings, did you feel unusually tired? Was anything out of place? Like, for example, were your clothes or shoes dirty or soiled? Did you notice any blood anyplace? Were you cut or scratched in any way?"
Catherine should have been accustomed to these types of insinuations, but the questions still bothered her. "I don't remember anything unusual," she said tentatively. She thought about Sunday morning and the level of fatigue she had experienced. She had chalked that up to her hyperemotional prison experience. "I mean, I certainly don't remember any blood on my hands or muddy sneakers or anything like that."
"I'm no expert in psychology," Bo said, "but there are cases of multiple personality disorder where a person is actually taken over by a second or third personality, and the various personalities don't even know that the other personalities exist. Most often, multiple personality disorder is caused by extensive childhood abuse or trauma." Bo took a swig of water and placed his pen on the table. "If there's anything like that in your background, Catherine, I really need to know about it."
Silently, Catherine weighed her options. She stared down at her water, trying to summon the strength to talk about th
e rape. Why couldn't she put this behind her? It had been eight years ago. Was it really necessary to reopen it all?
"Catherine?" Bo prompted softly. He looked at her expectantly, as if he already knew.
Finally she looked up at him. She had only talked about this with one other man, a boyfriend who hadn't worked out. But she found sympathy in Bo's eyes.
"It was a frat party," she said, starting slowly. "The guy's name was Kenny Towns. I had dated him a few months earlier. . . ."
She told Bo all the details she could remember. The three or four drinks she'd had that night. Flirting with Kenny. How he'd coaxed her into the bedroom only to have her pull away in the middle of some passionate kissing. "I can't do this," she had said to him. "Not now. Not like this."
Kenny was agitated, telling Cat she had no right to get him all worked up and just stop. She left the room angry.
Later that night, Kenny came over and apologized. They went outside for a drink on the patio. Cat would never forget what happened next. After a few minutes and half a drink, she felt like she had chugged a whole bottle of tequila. The wooziness, the slurring of her words. To Cat, it was like watching herself lose control, as if she had stepped outside her own body, observing with detached fascination as an incredibly drunk Catherine lost all of her inhibitions and coordination. She tried to stand, but Kenny had to help stabilize her. She remembered wrapping her arms around Kenny to keep from falling. She remembered staggering back to the bedroom with him.
She regained consciousness the next morning, lying on a couch in the fraternity house lobby, the taste of vomit in her mouth.