Buried Evidence

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  He uncorked the wine, then poured two glasses. “I understand how you feel about alcohol because of John,” he told her, “but let’s not go overboard. My philosophy has always been that anything is all right if it’s done in moderation. Doctors say a glass of wine now and then is healthy, even good for your circulation.”

  Richard was beginning to suspect that his plans of rekindling their romance might fizzle out, and wondered how long it would be before she asked him to drive her home. What a bitch that would be, he thought, turning away so she wouldn’t be able to detect his disappointment.

  “Just when I was beginning to feel comfortable in my new position, John had to call me and tell me he’d killed someone.” Lily gazed at him from across the room. Since the rape she had become too conservative, too rigid. When the phone rang, she started to rush over to answer it, then realized that the call might be for Richard.

  “Great,” Richard said, turning his back as he listened to the caller. “Do you want to speak to your mother?” He paused, then added, “We haven’t spent much time together over the past six years. We’re just talking about the days when we used to work together in Ventura. You know, the kind of things folks our age do.”

  Lily walked over to take the phone from him, but he had already disconnected. “She’s spending the night with her friend.”

  “Ronnie?” Lily asked, having met her when she’d attended high school with Shana in Camarillo. Since then Ronnie’s family had relocated to Goleta, an area not far from the university. “Are they going out to one of those dance clubs you mentioned? I didn’t think that was such a good idea, by the way. This might have been a safe city while you were growing up, Rich, but Santa Barbara has changed. It’s almost like that area they renovated in Miami. What’s it called? South Beach, I believe. I’ve got a case on my desk right now that occurred downtown near State Street where most of the nightclubs are located.”

  “Sorry,” Richard said, hanging his head. “She didn’t mention taking me up on my suggestion to go to a dance club, Lily. She just said she was going to crash at her friend’s house, then drive home in the morning.”

  Lily rubbed her forehead. “Did you remind her what time she has to be home?”

  “From what I saw tonight, Shana is responsible enough to remember what time we’re getting together for breakfast.” He arched an eyebrow, giving her a look that said she was being overprotective and worrisome. “She knows we’re going to try to figure out how we can protect her from being implicated in the accident. Don’t you think this is a meeting she wouldn’t want to miss?”

  “You’re right,” Lily said, sitting in an overstuffed chair with a matching ottoman. She leaned her head back against the plush cushion and closed her eyes. When she opened them, Richard was standing over her with a wineglass. She brought it briefly to her lips, then set it down on the end table. Removing her jacket, she tossed it on the opposite chair. Underneath, she was wearing an off-the-shoulder white sweater. She kicked her shoes off, resting her feet on the ottoman.

  Richard leaned back against the bar, passed the wineglass under his nose, then took a swallow. The bottle of wine had cost him almost three hundred dollars, and she’d taken one sip, then set it aside as if it were club soda. “No matter how many problems come our way,” he told her, “a person still has to extract some enjoyment from life. If not, what’s the purpose of living?”

  “Punishment,” Lily said. “I work, I eat, I sleep, only to get up and do it all over again. I feel like a broken record. I’m certain I’m going to keep spinning around in the same circles until something inside me explodes. It’s not as if it hasn’t happened before.”

  “In that respect,” Richard answered, “I’d classify you more along the lines of a hurricane than a broken record.” He was trying his best to set the right mood, wanting desperately to hold her, make love to her, attempt to recapture the magic they had once shared. It wasn’t merely to satisfy his physical desires. Joyce would have gladly engaged in sex with him several times a day if he had encouraged her. The woman had been an eager and accomplished sex partner, but he wasn’t in love with her.

  For sex to be sublime and meaningful, Richard believed the participants had to possess an all-consuming desire to not only please their partners but be comfortable enough to allow them to reciprocate. Men were generally eager to accept, whereas many women, especially those raised in strict religious households such as Lily, grew up thinking pleasure was a sin. Before the rape they had been about to embark on what he considered a once-in-a-lifetime relationship. Then everything had come to a screeching halt.

  Richard stared at Lily with longing. He wanted to take her to a point that transcended sex, merge with her to the degree that he could not only please her and convince her she was loved, but could manage to reach inside and extract the bitterness and hurt buried deep inside her.

  With Lily, although he wasn’t certain if she even discussed the situation with her therapist, the rape had reopened a wound so deep he had not been surprised that she’d killed someone. As a child she had been sexually abused by her grandfather. The night she had removed her father’s shotgun from its dusty resting place in the garage, then driven to Oxnard to gun down Bobby Hernandez, Lily had been attempting to rid the world of two demons—both the man who had raped her and her daughter, as well as the ghost of her long-dead grandfather.

  Richard adjusted the dimmer switch on the light, bathing the room in a soft glow. Then he walked over to the stereo, selecting a collection of Billie Holiday’s greatest hits from the CDs already in the bungalow. The legendary jazz singer’s sultry voice drifted out of the recessed speakers, her voice so intimate and clear, it was as if Billie Holiday herself had crept into the room to give them a private performance.

  “Dance with me,” he said, walking over and pulling Lily to her feet.

  They held each other, swaying back and forth to the music. “Have we ever danced?”

  “No,” he said, his breath brushing across her cheek. “I’m not very good.”

  “Neither am I,” Lily whispered, trembling with emotion. “Tall girls don’t get asked to dance that often, particularly redheaded tall girls. In high school I was a wallflower.”

  “Don’t you know that tall guys love to dance with tall girls?” As soon as the words were spoken, Richard placed his hand on her buttocks and pulled her closer. “When a girl is too short, things don’t match up as well.”

  She didn’t understand until she felt his erection. Then she tilted her head up, her nerve endings tingling with sensation. Richard kissed her, his hands softly caressing her neck, then drifting down to her bare shoulders. He tugged on her sweater until her breasts were exposed and in his hands. She unbuttoned his pants, unzipped him, then pushed his slacks to the floor.

  “Bedroom,” Richard said, pointing. “I’d rather make love to you than dance.”

  “No.” Lily was swept away with desire. The wine, the bungalow, the music, and the man had suddenly caused her inhibitions to disappear. “Over there.”

  He finally realized she was referring to the chair she’d been sitting in earlier. He started removing what was left of his clothing as fast as he possibly could. Lily disappeared into the other room, picking up the wicker basket with the scented oils and carrying it with her to the bathroom. When she came back out, she found a book of matches and quickly lit the candles on either side of the bed.

  Richard was sprawled out in the chair waiting for her, the rest of his clothing in a heap on the floor. “Don’t you know how beautiful you are?” His eyes feasted on the sensuous curves of her body, the softness of her luminous skin, the way her curly red hair bounced and moved, wild and exotic.

  She stroked his abdomen, her fingers trailing through his pubic hair. Although his stomach wasn’t as solid as it had been years before, he was far from flabby. “You’re beautiful, too,” she said, boldly placing both of her hands around his penis. A few moments later she straddled him, tossing her long hai
r to one side, moaning as he cupped one of her breasts in his hands, then placed the nipple in his mouth. With her free hand she reached over and turned out the light, wanting the room dark so she could enjoy his body at the same time she touched his soul. The area between her legs was pulsating, aching, wet. She could feel him pushing the crotch of her panties to one side, then stroking her with his fingers.

  “God,” she exclaimed, bending down to kiss him, probing the inside of his mouth with her tongue. She tasted fermented grapes from the wine, inhaled his lime-scented cologne, kissed his face, his chest, his stomach, delighting in the salty taste of his skin on her tongue.

  Richard whispered, “Change places with me.”

  Lily was floating in another dimension, ready to walk off the edge of the world for him. She staggered in the direction of the bedroom when he caught her by the hand, then lightly pushed her back down onto the chair, spreading her legs and burying his head between them.

  “Stop, don’t, please.” She tried to sit up. “It’s too soon. I’m shy.”

  “Let me love you,” Richard said, firmly pushing her back to a reclining position. “You weren’t shy the first night we were together. Don’t tell me you have to get drunk in order to let me make love to you.”

  As her passion took over, her body bowed upward, her head falling back into the soft cushions of the chair. She laced her fingers through his hair, wanting it to go on forever. Although the pleasure began in her genitals, she felt it moving like an electrical current—behind her forehead, down her arms. Her toes contracted in muscle spasms when she suddenly released a cry of pleasure so intense she felt as if she had become embedded in the chair. For a few moments she was unable to move, her body limp and satiated. Then she sat up, clasping his face in her hands as she kissed him.

  “We can come back to this chair later,” Lily told him, leading him into the bedroom with an impish grin on her face. “Since you flew me to heaven, I have to see if I can do the same for you.”

  “I love you, Lily,” he said, falling serious. “I’ll let you fly me anywhere you want. I want this night to be special.”

  Lily stood by the bed in the candlelight, tears of joy glistening in her eyes. “I want this to be our new beginning,” she told him, her voice small and childlike. “But I have to know the past isn’t going to come back and destroy me. How can I let myself love you, only to lose you like before?”

  Richard engulfed her in his arms, pressing her head down on his shoulder. “I’m not going to leave you this time,” he said. “I promise, Lily. We would have been together sooner if you hadn’t shut me out.”

  “I was scared,” she told him, dropping her head. “Now I’m afraid for Shana.”

  “Look at me,” he said, lifting her chin. “I’m going to take care of you and Shana. All I’m asking is that you have faith in me, give me a chance.”

  Lily reached up and traced the outline of his lips with her fingers. She tossed the comforter on the floor, stretching out on her back on the bed, her arms reaching out to him. He stared at her for a long time, waiting for her to say she loved him, trusted him, knew he would do everything humanly possible to prevent anyone from ever hurting her again. Considering all she had been through, he told himself, her vulnerability and willingness to surrender herself to him were more than he could have ever expected.

  “Come to me,” Lily whispered, letting her arms fall back on the bed.

  23

  John Forrester woke up a few minutes past nine on Friday morning, his head pounding and his throat parched. He hadn’t shaved in two days. Empty beer cans and fast-food wrappers littered the top of the coffee table. Since his arrest he had sworn off Jack Daniel’s. As many alcoholics did, however, he mistakenly believed that beer was less harmful than other forms of alcohol.

  Among the clutter on the coffee table were several hundred-dollar bills, the proceeds of his trip to the pawnshop that afternoon, minus the few items he had purchased at the grocery store. He’d pawned his watch, his wedding ring, his camera, his VCR. At least he still had his television. Five times since his arrest he had called the real estate office where he worked to see if the check he’d been waiting for had arrived. The amount was insignificant, only a few thousand dollars. On the last real estate deal he’d closed, he had kicked in more than half his commission, or the transaction would never have been completed. Today he had traveled by foot or by bus. The manager at the Prudential real estate office where he was affiliated hadn’t heard the news of his arrest, and already she was threatening to give his desk space to another agent. How could he work when he didn’t have a car? Regardless of whether or not he was convicted, he had to be able to provide himself with food and other essentials during the trial.

  John wished he had the courage to kill himself. How could he, though, when he was terrified of what awaited him on the other side? He glanced over at a photograph of Shana and Lily on the mantel, both of them with bright smiles on their faces.

  Lily had taken his daughter from him, the only reason he had left for living. She had tricked him, posting his bail, then snatching Shana right out from under him. “How could you refuse to help me?” he shouted, shaking his fists at her image. Fueled with desperation and rage, he grabbed the photo off the mantel, removed it from the frame, then used his Swiss Army knife to slice Lily’s face out of the picture. Picking up his cigarette lighter off the coffee table, he touched the flame to the edge of the paper, holding it in his hands over an ashtray until there was nothing left but a smoldering pile of ashes.

  This time, he decided, Lily wasn’t going to walk all over him. Picking up the portable phone off the coffee table, he read Fred Jameson’s number off a scrap of paper as he punched in the numbers. After identifying himself, he said, “You left a message saying you wanted to speak to me.”

  “Right,” Jameson said. “Where are you now, Forrester?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Just curious,” the detective told him, sensing he had a hothead on his hands. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. A detective by the name of Hope Carruthers contacted me about this murder you claim your ex-wife committed. I’m not sure you’re aware of it, but that crime occurred in our jurisdiction, not Los Angeles. They just kicked it over to us.”

  John didn’t give a shit about jurisdiction. Striking out at Lily was something altogether different. He fired up another cigarette. “Are you going to reopen the case?”

  Jameson had slept only a few hours the night before. They were putting the finishing touches on a case that was scheduled to go to trial in two weeks, a domestic violence homicide. Harold Bachman had battered his wife during their entire fifteen-year marriage, some of her injuries so severe she had required hospitalization. When the poor woman had finally decided to put a stop to the vicious cycle of violence and contacted a divorce attorney, her husband had pumped three bullets into her head as she walked to her car in the parking lot of the law firm.

  “We’d like to get a formal statement from you,” Jameson told him, sipping on his sixth cup of coffee since he had arrived at the station that morning. “I doubt if we can spare the time for another two or three weeks. What I’d like to do now, though, is schedule a date for you to come into the police station.”

  “Two or three weeks!” John exclaimed, flicking his ashes. “I don’t know if those people in L.A. told you, but I’ve got some problems of my own right now.”

  Fred Jameson tossed his legs onto his desk. “Your problems are our problems, pal,” he told him. “A witness with a vehicular homicide hanging over his head doesn’t carry a lot of weight in the courtroom. There’s also the problem of finding and reviewing the evidence. Reopening a six-year-old crime presents a lot of problems.”

  John crushed an empty beer can in his hand. “You’re not going to do anything about it, are you? You’re going to let her get away with it. Why? Because she’s like a member of your little cop family.”

  “If you want us to
nail your ex-wife,” Jameson said, “watch your mouth, Forrester. I’m not in the greatest mood today, but I can assure you of one thing, I’d arrest the fucking chief if he killed someone. You can throw your code of silence baloney out the window.”

  “Fine,” John said, stubbing out his cigarette. “But I’m afraid if you wait too long, I might be in jail.”

  “We’ll come to you, then,” the detective told him. “For the time being, why don’t you start by filling me in on what you know? And don’t waste my time with a bunch of hooey. Carruthers and Osborne sent me a tape of your interview with them, so there’s no reason to go over old ground.” He paused, gulping down the remainder of his coffee. “This isn’t grade school where you can get another kid suspended by running to the principal and tattling. What kind of proof do you have that Lily Forrester killed Bobby Hernandez?”

  John leaned back on the sofa, shutting his eyes as he tried to bring forth details he might have forgotten the morning he had spoken to the Los Angeles detectives. While he was thinking, he heard a beeping sound on the line. He was about to hit the flash button, thinking he had another incoming call, then realized it wasn’t the same sound. “Are you recording this phone call?”

  “Always,” Jameson told him. “We record every call, for your protection as well as ours.”

  “The night of the rape,” he said, speaking slowly now, “Lily asked me to take Shana back to our house in Camarillo. I didn’t want to leave Lily alone… “

  “Where were the police?”

  “Lily refused to call them,” John told him. “A police report would never have been filed if I hadn’t reported it myself the next morning.”

  Jameson pushed his chair to an upright position, excited at the prospect that there might be a crucial element involved in the crime that no one had considered. The motive was obvious—Lily had killed the man she believed had raped both her and her daughter. What Forrester was telling him could be used to establish that her actions were planned, or what was legally classified as premeditation. This took the crime to a more serious level. “Why would your ex-wife refuse to call the police as soon as the crime occurred? She was a prosecutor. Of all people, she knew how important it was to secure the crime scene and collect evidence before it became contaminated. Not only that, a rape victim should undergo a medical-legal exam immediately following the assault. The most definitive way to establish the identity of the rapist is through DNA evidence found on the victim—hair, sperm, saliva, or any type of bodily secretion.”