Act of Betrayal

by Shirley Kennett

  She got off the phone and hurried downstairs. She had a TV in her room, but she didn’t want to risk waking Thomas with the noise. She caught the broadcast right away.

  The Honorable Edward D. Canton, of the 22nd Circuit Court of St. Louis City, had just been blown up, along with his car, outside his mistress’s home.

  There was a brief statement from Chief Wharton. Yes, there was an explosion. Yes, it was a car registered to the judge. Yes, there was a person inside, but that person had not been identified definitely as the judge. End of statement.

  The chief tried to look concerned and grave, but he came across as rumpled and irritated about being pulled from sleep.

  The rest of the information was liberally filled in by the reporter on site. As PJ continued to watch, a parade of neighbors and associates of the judge appeared, obviously rousted from their beds by the media, to say what a nice guy the judge was, and how he had carried on a ten-year affair that his wife didn’t seem to mind. Evidently everyone who was anyone in St. Louis society had known about his extramarital relationship with Natalie Dorale. That left out PJ, who was mildly shocked to see footage taken a half hour earlier showing the wife and mistress sobbing together and comforting each other.

  TV reporters were indulging in gleeful speculation while trying to keep funereal looks on their faces. The city prosecutor flamboyantly knifed to death and a leading circuit court judge blown to bits within a few days of each other—it was the stuff that crime reporters’ wet dreams are made of.

  “Revenge killings,” she heard. Someone was presumed to have a reason to hate, a reason that tied those two men together.

  No one mentioned a lone ex-con put to death in a hellish apartment. But the link was clear to PJ.

  Canton had been the judge in the Ramsey case.

  The phone rang and she picked up on the first ring. It was Wall.

  “Thought I’d be waking you,” he said.

  She ignored his comment and rushed on. “I already know about Judge Canton,” she said. “It looks like the Ramsey case is the key factor.”

  “Can’t dispute that. We’re looking hard and fast for Darla and Elijah. I’m thinking Darla might be Ginger Miller. What do you think of the mother?”

  “As the killer, you mean?” PJ was taken by surprise. She searched her feelings quickly. “I don’t think so. She still thinks Jeremiah was innocent, and she’ll probably go to her grave thinking that. But I can’t see her being a knife-throwing or bomb-building expert.”

  “There’s something else, PJ, that wasn’t on the TV news.” His voice had taken on a somber tone. She sensed that there was something he hadn’t wanted to tell her right away, and immediately the sense of dread came back, the one she’d felt when first awakened by Bill’s phone call. She stilled herself and waited to hear the worst about Schultz.

  “Because of your warning about people associated with the case being in danger, we had surveillance on Judge Canton and a few others. The tail followed him to the mistress’s house and kept watch outside. Canton wouldn’t let anyone into his house, and he refused to have anyone ride with him. Obviously the mistress was the reason for that; it’s plain now. He didn’t want to give up his middle-of-the-night visits.”

  PJ shook her head. However the judge had managed to get out of the house, he wouldn’t be doing it anymore.

  “Someone else was hurt in the explosion?” PJ asked, puzzled. She was breathing easier. At least it didn’t seem that he was going to drop some news on her about Schultz.

  “Not exactly. The tail was spotted. He was shot twice while sitting in his car. It was Dave Whitmore.”

  Twenty-five

  PJ DROPPED THE PHONE.

  Not Dave! Oh, no…

  She scrambled for the handset and snatched it up from the kitchen floor. “Tell me he’s not dead,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion.

  “I can only tell you he’s not dead yet,” Wall said. “He’s critically injured, and he’s in surgery now. His chances are not good.”

  “Oh God, Howard… I feel so terrible. Has anyone contacted his girlfriend?”

  “She’s at the hospital. I thought she could use some company there.”

  “I’ll go immediately. What hospital?”

  She got the information and hung up. For a few moments she sat in the kitchen, immobilized. All she could think was that someone she cared about had been killed because of her suggestion. If she’d kept her theories to herself, Dave would still be alive. Who cared about protecting some judge who was fooling around, anyway?

  She shook herself. Her thoughts had been spinning down strange paths. Of course it was important to protect others if she could—she had been right to pass on the information she had.

  And Dave wasn’t dead yet.

  She forced back tears and went upstairs to wake Thomas. It looked as though he was going to have to stay with the Lakelands a little while longer.

  She went into his room, turned on the lamp, and touched his shoulder gently.

  “Thomas, wake up,” she said. “I have to go out.” She was worried that taking him back to Bill’s house would send Bill into a tizzy. Rapid changes in plans had that effect on him. He would just have to cope.

  Thomas was groggy and slow to wake. Agitated and anxious to get to the hospital, she shook him roughly.

  “What is it?” he said crossly.

  PJ didn’t have time for elaborate explanations. “Dave Whitmore’s been shot. I have to get to the hospital right away. You’re going back to Winston’s house.”

  “Mom, it’s the middle of the night,” he said. “I just got to sleep.”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Her voice edged up toward shrillness. “It’s important. Get up!”

  She pulled on his arm.

  “Just leave me here, okay? I’ll be fine. You go on.”

  “No,” she said stubbornly. “Get dressed and meet me downstairs in three minutes.”

  He made it in time, but there were thunderclouds on his face and lightning in his eyes. He kept silent as they got into the car.

  Finally, when PJ turned onto the block where the Lakeland home was located, she couldn’t stand it any more.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she said irritably. “I thought you enjoyed staying at Winston’s.”

  “I do, Mom, but his dad isn’t your baby-sitter. There’s such a thing as imposing.”

  She glanced at him as she drove and saw that his eyes were brimming with tears. There had to be more to it than what he’d already said.

  “If you loved me like you say you do, you’d get a job where you don’t have to shuffle me around like a loaf of bread in a shopping cart,” he spat out.

  His words sliced deeply. She thought he understood about the demands of her job, and that they had enough communication to prevent the buildup of resentment that she heard in his voice. Obviously he’d been hiding his disappointment. She chided herself for thinking that their relationship had been getting better and better. She should have known that his behavior was too good to be true, but she’d blinded herself to that.

  “Sweetie, the past few days have been really tough on both of us,” she said. “I apologize for thinking I’m the only one who’s worried about Schultz. And I also apologize for thinking that spending a few fun hours with you makes up for everything else.” She looked over at him. Tears had spilled down his cheeks.

  “I’m not a little kid anymore, Mom. You don’t give me credit for understanding anything.”

  “You’ve been very brave,” PJ said. She slipped the car to the curb in front of the Lakeland house and turned off the engine. All the windows were dark. Bill had spoken to her not long ago, but he must have gone directly to bed afterward.

  “Take me with you,” he said softly.

  “What?”

  “Take me with you to the hospital. I like Dave Whitmore too. I might be able to do something to help.”

  In his dark eyes there was an unspoken challenge: Go ahead. Tr
eat me like a little kid and ignore me.

  She felt as though the ground were shifting under her, or all the stars were realigning themselves in the sky. It was too soon, too soon. Wasn’t this supposed to happen later, when he was sixteen or seventeen? She knew he had matured tremendously in the past couple of years, but he was still her baby. He was asking her to change the rules—to change the entire way she perceived him.

  “Can’t we discuss this later?” she asked feebly. Too many things were crowding in at once. The past week would go down in her personal history as a record-breaker in terms of loss, doubts, and forced readjustments.

  He turned his head away and stared out the front window in answer. His profile looked so much like his father’s.

  Was that it? Was she afraid that when he became a man, he’d be like his father?

  PJ started the car and drove toward the hospital.

  Twenty-six

  THERE WAS AN ALLEY behind Schultz’s house on Lafayette Avenue. Cut made his way down it, sticking to the shadows, slipping around the edges of the bright circles cast by the occasional dusk-to-dawn light. It was three o’clock on Saturday morning, and Cut didn’t think anybody would be watching the alley, but he was careful anyway. He lived by three things: have a plan going in, always follow orders, and don’t waste anything. He had come straight from the bombing, and that bothered him a little because that hadn’t been in the day’s plan. But he knew that the bombing was going to be occupying the police in general, and maybe Schultz in particular. No sense wasting opportunities.

  Schultz’s house had respectable locks on the doors but no alarm system. He smashed a basement window with a cloth-wrapped hand, removed the shards of glass, and slithered in on his belly.

  The basement was lighted only by moonlight slipping in the same window he’d used. The moon was half-full, but hazy clouds drifted over its face, blocking most of the light. After his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he still couldn’t see well enough to move around. He turned on a small flashlight and played a thin beam over his surroundings. After thirty seconds, he turned it off and moved with confidence, having memorized the placement of obstacles and the direction of the stairs. It was a skill that had come in handy a number of times.

  He was hoping the basement door wouldn’t be locked on the other side, and it wasn’t. He opened it cautiously and found himself in a short hallway. He stopped and listened. The refrigerator hummed from down the hall. It was cool in the house, but the air-conditioner wasn’t running at the moment.

  The house was so quiet that Cut knew Schultz was either asleep upstairs or had been called out to the scene of the bombing.

  A third possibility occurred to him, one that went along with the surveillance man he’d taken out at the judge’s house. If the man hadn’t been a private investigator, then he was a cop. He should have taken the time to ask the guy before pinning him with a couple of shots. If the police already had the full pattern, then Schultz might have made a cowardly exit. He could be in hiding somewhere, and Cut could wait in the house, and wait, and Schultz wouldn’t show his face to have it blown off.

  If the cops had the pattern, they’d probably expect him to go after Vince’s lawyer next—Arnold something. Arnold Cartwright. That had been considered early on, but the more thought that went into it, the more it became clear that Cartwright was the only one who had spoken out on Vince’s behalf. Even if the guy was inexperienced, he had done his best. That still counted for something, at least in Cut’s world.

  Cut made his way up the stairs, looking for Schultz’s bedroom. Floating in like a malevolent fog, Cut entered the bedroom and found no one sleeping. He used his flashlight, shielding the beam with his slitted fingers. The bed was rumpled, but that didn’t mean anything. Most men living alone didn’t make up their beds every day, unless the odds were good they’d be bringing home a woman. Cut checked the closets with his flashlight and found that only two of the numerous hangers were empty, so Schultz hadn’t packed up and left entirely.

  On the dresser he found framed photographs. One was of Julia, one of Rick, the last of a woman and a young boy. He studied the third picture, and recognized the woman he’d seen inside Schultz’s house when he’d been across the street playing gardener while spying. He hadn’t been directly across the street, so he’d seen everything from farther away and at an angle, but he was fairly sure it was the same woman.

  So there was already a new woman in Schultz’s life, after Julia left.

  Cut would have to find out who the new woman was. Julia wasn’t where she was supposed to be, which had been a disappointment. Her answering machine message said she had gone to visit a sick friend and didn’t know when she’d be back. It was either true or a clever diversion, and Cut didn’t have the time to dig into the situation to locate her.

  The new woman would make a good substitute. Cut filed the information, and the image of the woman’s face, in his mind. When he had a chance, he’d look her up.

  The bathroom had the basic toiletries in it, plus a book laying open next to the sink. Schultz read in the bathroom. Cut smiled. He and Schultz had something in common besides the executions of their sons.

  Deciding that Schultz was out on police business, Cut went back downstairs to choose a spot for the shooting. If he was lucky, Schultz would be back while it was still dark. If not, he could still manage. He wasn’t planning to fool around. A couple of quick shots, and out.

  In the kitchen, he found a good spot where he could sit down while waiting and still cover both the rear and front doors well enough. He figured he’d hear the key in the lock, and that would tell him which door to head for. There was a night-light plugged into one of the outlets above the kitchen counter. He went over to unplug it so that its light wouldn’t give him away.

  On the counter underneath the night-light was a stack of mail. It caught his attention as something out of place. Didn’t Schultz open his mail regularly? Cut could see that some of the pieces were junk mail. He narrowed his eyes. Most people pitched junk mail immediately. They didn’t stack it on the counter.

  Suspicious of anything out of the norm, he flicked on his flashlight and took a closer look. The most recent postmark in the stack was several days ago. Schultz, or someone else, had stopped his mail.

  Schultz was gone. It was time for Plan B.

  There was always a Plan B, and this one was sweet.

  Twenty-seven

  PJ FOUND MELISSA HAWKINS, Dave’s girlfriend, in the surgery waiting room. Melissa was a graduate student in Mechanical Engineering at Washington University. PJ knew their relationship had progressed to the point where they were living together. She greeted Melissa and then turned to introduce Thomas.

  She noticed how composed her son was. There was no sign that a few minutes ago he’d been sitting in her car crying in frustration. Even his voice seemed different to her.

  Where did this handsome young man come from, anyway?

  “May I get you two some coffee?” he asked. She realized that he sensed the two women wanted to talk alone.

  Sensitive as well as handsome.

  She sent him away with a few dollars in search of coffee. He came back carrying a cup in each hand and a can of soda for himself stuffed into his pants pocket. By that time, she and Melissa had hugged and cried and wiped their faces with tissues. He had stayed away just long enough.

  Sensitive, handsome, and with good timing.

  An hour or so later, Anita arrived. Her face was grim, but PJ suspected that tears weren’t her way of expressing herself. Anita explained that the bomb had gone off not long after Dave was shot. The fiery blast attracted the police immediately, and Dave’s wounded body was discovered before too much time had gone by. If Judge Canton had stayed with his lover a long time, the discovery of the wounded officer would have been delayed, and Dave would have died in his own bloodstained vehicle.

  “Thank goodness,” Anita said, “that it was a quickie.” She lapsed into silence after delivering
her news, and they all drew strength from her quiet presence.

  Hours later, the three women plus Thomas stood together as they got the news from the surgeon. One bullet had ripped through Dave’s right lung at an oblique angle, nicked the pericardium, the membrane that surrounds the heart, and come to rest perilously close to his spine. The other, delivered from a different angle as though the attacker had been running and fired from two different positions, had traveled completely through the base of his neck, a fraction of an inch from his jugular, just missing his cervical spine.

  Either of the bullets could have ended his life if they had taken just slightly different paths. He was still not out of danger, even though the surgery was as successful as could be expected. The bullet in his neck had damaged his trachea, but that was not life-threatening after the surgery. It was unclear whether his voice or breathing would suffer. There would be swelling for a few days, and Dave would be breathing through a temporary tracheotomy. The bullet near his spine was still in place. Dave’s condition needed to stabilize before a second operation was attempted to remove it. There was the possibility of leaving the bullet in his body because of its precarious location. It had chipped one of the thoracic vertebrae, but not damaged or severed the spinal cord cradled inside. Half of his right lung had been removed. It had been irreparably mangled, and had been leaking blood into his abdomen. If he hadn’t been discovered so soon, he would have died of internal bleeding, shock, and hypoxia, any one of which could have killed him.

  Dave was incredibly lucky to be alive.

  PJ sank into her chair, relieved that Dave had made it through the initial surgery and that there was hope of recovery.

  Melissa and Anita seemed to have grown roots in the waiting room, and PJ knew they’d be there when Dave woke up. She would have liked to stay also, but an idea had been growing in her mind as she sat anxiously waiting for the outcome of the surgery. She felt the need to act on it, so she took Thomas aside.

  “I’m going to work for a while,” she said. “There’s something I need to do. You can stay here if you want, or come with me.”