by David Ellis
“Ellis must be considered the leading contender to succeed fellow Chicago lawyer-author Scott Turow.”
—The News-Press
PRAISE FOR
LIFE SENTENCE
“Ellis balances plot, setting, pacing, characterization, and surprises in just the right measure to create a compelling high-stakes courtroom drama. He also takes time to explore the psyche of lawyers as Turow does so well.”
—Katy Munger, The Washington Post
“Must reading not only for fans of intricate, Turow-like mystery plotting but also for everyone who has ever thought of running for public office…Who does Ellis think he is—John Grisham? The answer to that has to be yes—with any luck. Ellis certainly writes as well as his Georgia colleague, and his plotting is even sharper.”
—Chicago Tribune
“[The] tight plot and believable dialogue keep the pages turning…Life Sentence has a wallop of an ending.”
—The Santa Fe New Mexican
“Ellis is an author to keep your eye on.”
—San Antonio Express-News
“This insider’s tale of political chicanery and extreme ambition is effectively told…a skillfully written crime story with some very believable characterizations. Recommended.”
—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
“Ellis sets a new standard with this superb legal thriller, surpassing his Edgar Award–winning debut, Line of Vision. A multilayered, tightly woven story, it breathes new life into the old cliché about revenge being a dish best served cold…Elegant prose skillfully impels Soliday through a haze of deadly deceit, where no one is who he appears to be and nothing is as it seems until the smoke finally clears to reveal the stunning ending. Highly recommended.”
—Library Journal
“Ellis follows up the success of his debut legal thriller, the Edgar Award–winning Line of Vision, with an equally intricate and intelligent murder puzzle that feels like it’s 100 percent plot, laid out with clean precision…highly entertaining and full of satisfying twists.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Gripping…a murder mystery chock-full of political intrigue, buried secrets, and surprising twists.”
—Booklist
“A suspenseful, page-turning thriller with an ending you will never see coming.”
—Rahm Emanuel, U.S. congressman, Fifth District (Chicago), and a former White House senior advisor
“[This] twisty, swiftly paced second legal thriller puts Ellis into the ring with Scott Turow.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Richly plotted…a puzzle whose pieces are so expertly scattered that you may not recognize them until they’re the last best guess.”
—The News-Press
“Realistic and intense…the novel twists and turns to a surprising conclusion.”
—Dick Devine, Cook County state’s attorney (Chicago)
PRAISE FOR THE EDGAR AWARD–WINNING
LINE OF VISION
“The best suspense novel I’ve read in a while.”
—James Patterson
“A fresh take on the legal thriller. Crackles with unexpected twists.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“Don’t think you can put Line of Vision down—you can’t. David Ellis won’t let you go, from the first tantalizing page to the final double twist.”
—Barbara Parker, New York Times bestselling author of Suspicion of Vengeance
“The most original and exciting thriller I’ve read in a long time. Starts at a fever pitch and never lets up.”
—J. F. Freedman, New York Times bestselling author of Above the Law
“Line of Vision is a wicked delight…David Ellis’s hero beguiles like Patricia Highsmith’s Ripley at his most devious. The story grabs, shakes, twists up, and won’t let go, all the way through to its deeply satisfying resolution.”
—Perri O’Shaughnessy
“Almost continuous tension and a surprisingly sympathetic narrator. [Marty’s] struggle is compelling and the verdict a stunning surprise. Expertly written, intricately plotted, and, of course, highly entertaining.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“A spellbinding legal drama—sexy, seductive, and full of surprises—which features a fascinating if unreliable protagonist. This is the best first novel I’ve read in a good long time.”
—William Bernhardt, author of the Justice series and Murder One
Titles by David Ellis
LINE OF VISION
LIFE SENTENCE
LIFE
SENTENCE
DAVID ELLIS
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
LIFE SENTENCE
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2003 by David Ellis.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-66576-3
BERKLEY ®
Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Version_2
For my mother, Judy Ellis, with all my love
Contents
Praise for Life Sentence
Titles by David Ellis
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
PROLOGUE
AUGUST 2000
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
JUNE 1979
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
SEPTEMBER 2000
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
OCTOBER 2000
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapt
er 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
NOVEMBER 2000
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Acknowledgments
The demons always come at night. When the last remnants of color leave the inside of his eyelids. When the security of daylight evaporates, replaced with shadows and blackening moods. When the accumulation of anxiety approaches panic, creates such an echoing, silent chime that he almost doesn’t hear the sound of the shattering glass on the first floor of his house.
It is muted but high-pitched. First, a single blow, probably to the lower of the two diamond-shaped windows on his door, the one closer to the knob. Then a scraping noise, the instrument of choice clearing out the jagged edges of glass. Four short scrapes for each side of the diamond, performed efficiently to maximize speed and minimize noise.
A momentary pause, no doubt while a hand reaches through the opening into the house, for the deadbolt. The click of the lock turning comes quickly. The door opens with a slight creak and a release in pressure that sends a groan through the house.
Bennett Carey opens his eyes and stares into the pitch blackness of his bedroom on the third floor. His eyes move to the clock on his nightstand. It reads “1:58” in square red numbers.
Bennett looks next at the security alarm pad near the bedroom door. A red light signals a breach of security in Zone 1, the front door. But the alarm is not activated, so no shrilling sound accompanies the invasion, no message will reach the monitoring service or the police department.
Footsteps on the tile of the first floor, rapid and loud. But just one set of feet. One intruder. He is not concerned with making noise, it seems. Makes some sense. The only real commotion is the smashing of the glass, which came from the outside. Once inside, there would be little need to mute one’s movements. Especially if you think no one is home.
Bennett calculates it quickly. It is early Sunday morning. He has spent all of Saturday in bed, save for one trip downstairs to the second-floor kitchen for some soup. Anyone scouting the place knows that Bennett lives alone and travels a lot. Anyone watching the house today would peek through the garage window and see the car is missing, because it’s in the shop. With no entry or exit from the house, no movement within, no car, a work schedule that generally sends him out of town a couple days a week, the most plausible conclusion must be that Bennett is not home.
The footsteps from the carpeted staircase are replaced with the flop of shoes on the hardwood floor of the second level. There is plenty to take there. The DVD player alone would fetch close to a thousand, even from a fence. The laptop computer in the office is brand-new and small enough for quick transport. The VCR, of course, also easy to snatch and run. He could go to the kitchen and take the microwave, for God’s sake.
Bennett lies perfectly still, save for an arm that drifts to the nightstand. He slowly opens the drawer, careful not to make noise. Why lose his sole advantage?
Shuffling of feet on the second-floor hardwood. Indecision. Turn left for the living room. Right for the office and kitchen.
Or straight ahead, for the last set of stairs to the top floor.
The final staircase aches from the weight of the intruder. His breathing is audible, his movements no less delicate than on the previous staircase. Bennett hears the intruder brush against the wall and stumble back, probably unaware in the dark that the final leg of his path is a winding staircase. A poor attempt at European architecture, Bennett had thought when he bought the place, but it serves to frustrate the intruder’s momentum now.
Bennett sits up in bed, relying on his abdominal muscles rather than a push off the box spring, again to minimize his presence. He wipes the sweat from his eyes, eyes that he will need now. A soft light from the street lamp down the road provides the only illumination in the darkness. A light that misses Bennett, actually obscures him even better with the contrast.
Arms outstretched, Bennett poises his weapon. A .38 special, a Smith & Wesson Model 337PD revolver, 5-round capacity. Bennett locks the hammer and aims the weapon at the doorway. He will not see the intruder until he hits the top of the stairs, until he reaches the third floor.
A beam of light hits the wall on the staircase, a small circle that flies about haphazardly. A flashlight, struggling for context. The footsteps return, more furiously than ever, once the intruder has his bearings.
Bennett tries to count the steps but fails. Through the darkness he sees the outline of the burglar, smells the combined odors of tobacco and outdoors and sweat.
The flashlight swings left—the intruder’s right—into the bedroom, sweeping the floor, hitting the legs of the bed but missing Bennett. A hand pats the frame of the doorway. The intruder takes two steps and stops in a panic. The flashlight swings in Bennett’s direction, shines into his face.
Bennett pulls the trigger a single time. A burst of red light, powder, the sickening sound of flesh penetration. The intruder sails back against the doorway and cries out. Bennett fires again as the man stumbles. The bullet splinters the wood of the door frame. The intruder is already in the midst of headlong flight, staggering and flailing down the stairs to the second floor.
Bennett’s feet draw up from under the sheets. He sits on the bed in an awkward crouch, his ears ringing from the gunshots, his pulse vibrating his entire body, sweat dripping into his eyes again. The gun is still pointed aimlessly toward the doorway as the clumsy sounds of the intruder reach the second floor once again.
Bennett allows one foot after the other to slowly plant on the bedroom carpet. He holds the gun away from his body with both hands. Then he moves toward the staircase.
Noise from the second floor. A slam against a wall. A groan. Awkward footsteps, echoing off the hardwood.
Bennett steps over the intruder’s flashlight, lying helplessly at the top of the stairs. He descends the dark staircase, his left arm flat against the wall, his right holding the gun facing up, only the balls of his feet touching the carpet of the stairs. His head is cocked, listening for the intruder, who has not yet taken the stairs to the first floor. Bennett hears his breathing, his coughing. No way to know where the bullet had hit.
Shuffling of feet on the hardwood, a body once again in motion. One step on the carpet of the stairs, then a thud, a wounded mass stumbling and sliding down the staircase to the tile of the bottom floor.
His eyes slightly adjusted to the dark, Bennett swiftly follows the curve on the winding staircase and reaches the second floor. He peeks around the corner of the staircase, spots the figure of the intruder on the bottom floor, getting to his feet. Bennett tries to think through his options. Then he decides not to think at all.
Bennett takes the final staircase in leaps, two stairs at a time. He tumbles off the final stair at the bottom, crashing against the wall of the hallway on the ground floor. As he turns, the darkness illuminates with three bursts of light. The deafening pop of one, two, three bullets echoes through the hallway.
1
WHEN MY EYES pop open just past four, I reach instinctively to the right side of the bed. My hand hits a cold pillow, a split second before I realize that it was supposed to. My movement causes stirring from the two dogs sleeping on the bed, my pugs. The overhead light is on, and one of them—Jake, the older, ink-black pug—gets to his haunches and looks at me expectantly.
“No,” I say, disabusing him of the possibility of a walk or food this early.
This causes the puppy, Maggie, to leap to attention. She’s a fawn—brown, the color of coffee with cream. She moves to Jake, in the process walking over a document resting on my bed. I watch her through the fog of sleep, the bright light in the room and the words of the television commentator standing in contrast to the still darkness outside my window.
“No,” I repeat, reaching for the paper. It’s the memorandum I’ve read over a dozen times since its arrival on my desk two weeks ago. Th
e document is flipped to the final page, the conclusion of the legal analysis, which confirmed what I’d been saying.
In summary, I concur with the conclusions of Jon Soliday. Under state law as I interpret it, Attorney General Langdon Trotter’s nominating papers are invalid. He is therefore disqualified from running for the office of Governor. A proper legal challenge could be filed to remove him from the ballot.
I exhale slowly. Our opponent in the gubernatorial election is not qualified to run.
God, I still remember the call I got a few weeks back from the State Board of Elections, the branch up here in the city. I had called to make arrangements to take a look at Trotter’s petitions, which contained the more than ten thousand signatures he was required to obtain to run in the Republican primary for governor. All we wanted to do was look through the petitions for bogus signatures, dead people or people who would be willing to swear that they never signed it. All we were looking for was some negative publicity on Trotter. Hell, the guy ran unopposed in the Republican primary, at least somebody had to look at his petitions.
“You better come over yourself,” the guy at the elections board said to me. He was one of our guys, a Democrat.
“I just need a copy,” I said.
“You should look at it yourself,” he repeated.
So I went over, more annoyed than anything. The board staffer dropped the first volume of the petitions on the desk and smiled. I flipped over to the first page, expecting to go on, and stopped. “This is a copy,” I said. “Can I see the original?”
“That is the original,” he said.
“No, it isn’t.” I waved him over and pointed to the first page of Trotter’s nominating papers, the statement of candidacy. That’s the document where the candidate officially “accepts” the invitation of the petition signers to run for office. It’s a legal fiction in reality—Trotter was the one who had the petitions prepared, nobody had to “invite” him. But the theory is that all of these people are begging him to run and he says, Well, okay. He does that by signing the statement of candidacy.