by Julie Beard
“Hello, Angel,” she said in a rich, melodic voice.
“Hello.” I tightened my grip on the arms of the cushioned metal chair.
“I want you to get comfortable,” she said, and my chair tilted back a few inches via a remote-controlled hydraulic system. “Straps will hold you in place, but they shouldn’t be too tight. Are you comfy?”
“I guess so.”
“Good. The constraints are simply there to keep you in the correct position. Now, Angel, what were you doing at the Cloisters?”
I squinted to see through the hologram and briefly spotted the camera lens recording my eye movements. The Diva seemed to notice. She moved her head and focused her large, heavily lined eyes more intently on me. The distraction worked. I forgot about the lens and did my best to make my case.
“I was there to help my colleague, Roy Leibman.”
The Diva smiled sympathetically. “Did you know him well?”
I tried to nod, forgetting that my head was strapped in place. “Yes. He was my mentor.” A surge of emotion clogged my throat and I let out a deep, pained breath. “He…he taught me everything I know.”
“Then why did you kill him?” Rather than being accusatory, she seemed genuinely curious.
Trying to mimic her calm, logical attitude, I said, “I didn’t kill him. When I arrived, I found Roy already wounded. Victor Alvarez was already dead.”
“You know Victor?”
“Yes.”
The Diva frowned, and I sensed her sympathy slipping away. This was a very sophisticated program. The interrogators who were running the show behind the mirror had the power to supply the Diva not only questions, but emotional reactions as well. I waited, but she remained silent. Why? What was the big deal about me knowing Victor? Then it hit me.
“Oh, come on. Are you implying that my association with Victor makes me more suspicious than anyone else in this building? You think this was somehow premeditated on my part? I’m just being honest. I could have said I knew who the victim was because everyone at the crime scene was talking about him, which they were, or because he’s frequently seen on television, but I told you the truth. I have nothing to hide.”
“You call it a crime scene,” she replied. “So you admit a crime was committed.”
“Yes. Obviously. But not by me. Roy called me and said he needed help. I think he’d already been shot when he called, but I didn’t realize that until I got there.”
“He called you?”
“Yes.” When she raised a brow in doubt, I added stridently, “Check the phone records. Go ahead. I have nothing to hide.”
“If you didn’t kill them, Angel, then who did?”
I paused just long enough to feel a trickle of perspiration itching its way down my right temple. I wished like hell I could scratch it. “I don’t know. Perhaps it was a random execution by drug dealers. Wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time kind of thing.”
“So your gun just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time as well?”
“My gun?” I repeated blankly. When she nodded, I said, “That’s impossible. My gun is locked up in a bank. I’m…semiretired.”
The image of the Diva faded to black and in her place I discovered a 3-D projection of a crime scene photo. A hand gingerly held a dangling semiautomatic weapon emblazoned with a lapis lazuli dragon imbedded in a pearl handle. There was no question that it was my gun.
“Where was this photo taken?” I demanded. “It could be anywhere.”
“True enough,” the Diva’s voice replied from the ether. “How’s this?”
Another photo appeared, a wider shot of the same pose. It was Marco holding the gun for the camera. Behind him you could see Victor Alvarez’s body.
I closed my eyes, wishing they could stay that way. Forever. What could I say to refute this photo? my mind frantically wondered. Deeper inside, I thought, Why didn’t Marco just cut my heart out with a knife? It would have been less painful than this. Clearly, he wanted me out of his life. Putting me behind bars was certainly one way to do that. Had he planted my gun at the crime scene?
“I don’t know how my gun got there,” I forced myself to say, though I felt like a dead woman walking, or rather sitting. “Contact my bank. Someone broke into my deposit box and stole it.”
The Diva threw her head back and laughed, her double chins shaking as her voice ran the musical scale from top to bottom. She finally settled on me with twinkling eyes. “Come now, Angel, you don’t expect me to believe that.”
“You seem like an intelligent woman, Diva,” I replied, daring a bit of reverse psychology with my computerized interrogator. “Surely you’ve figured out by now that sometimes people are set up for crimes they didn’t commit. Do you really think I would be stupid enough to risk an interrogation with you if I’d used my gun at that crime scene?”
“Someone used that gun.”
“But not me.”
The Diva looked back over her shoulder and appeared to be talking to someone, though no one else was projected in the hologram. She turned back to me with a look of grave doubt.
“Angel, Lieutenant Townsend informs me that his men have already run a computer check of your lapel phone records. There was no call from Roy Leibman.”
“That’s a lie!” I shouted.
Her expressive eyes couldn’t quite conceal a gleam of triumph. “Take a look for yourself.”
The Diva faded to black and an image of my phone records flashed in front of me. I squinted to make out the numbers that had come in over the last twenty-four hours. Not only was Roy’s call absent, there was no evidence of any incoming calls after 10:30 p.m. The only registered conversation was the one I had made when I called for emergency help at the Cloisters.
“This isn’t right!” I called out. I tried to look at the two-way mirror, but the padded clamp around my forehead stopped me cold. I moved to yank it off, but the straps around my wrists merely tightened. “There’s a mistake in those records.”
The Diva reappeared, fading in on a bubble like Glenda the Good Witch in The Wizard of Oz, though her change in demeanor reminded me more of Glenda’s evil sister from the east.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Angel?”
“I talked to Roy,” I said as calmly as I could. I had to remember that I wasn’t trying to convince the Diva. She didn’t exist. I was trying to prove to the camera lens hidden behind her image that I was telling the truth. “Roy asked me to come.”
“Is that so?” the Diva replied, all frowns and pinched lips. “Did Roy Leibman ever ask for your help before?”
I paused. “No. And I’m sure that in Lieutenant Townsend’s little logical manual on law enforcement that means it’s unlikely Roy would have called on me now. Am I right?”
“I’ll ask the questions, missy,” the Diva hissed. “Isn’t it true that you came to the Cloisters because you were jealous that Victor Alvarez had chosen Roy Leibman as a Certified Retribution Specialist instead of you?”
“What? No!”
“You wanted to be among the most prominent in your profession. That’s why you rescued those twelve Chinese orphans last month. Not because anyone was paying you to do that job, but because you wanted the publicity.”
“I wanted to help the girls,” I shot back.
“You were jealous and angry that when Victor needed a retribution job done, he didn’t turn to you like his father had.”
I frowned slowly. “Wait a minute. How did you know about—”
“You didn’t want Roy to horn in on your domain as CRS for the mayor’s family.”
“That’s absurd.”
“So when you found out that Roy was meeting Victor at the Cloisters, you came to express your anger. You were the only one with a gun. Before the night was through, you used it. You killed Roy Leibman and Victor Alvarez.”
I shut my eyes. I shouldn’t have. It would probably be construed as a sign of guilt. But suddenly my eyelids were too heavy to bear. I could take n
o more. It had become abundantly clear the Diva wasn’t going to cut me any more slack than Lieutenant Townsend had. No surprise there, since he was doubtless programming her with the questions.
The lights came on suddenly. I opened my eyes and found the Diva had disappeared. My chair righted itself and the restraints retreated with a slight hum. Townsend came out of a door near the three-way mirror.
“Speak of the devil,” I muttered to myself as I swung my feet to the floor and rubbed my wrists. When he came close enough for me to shiver at the sight of his gray, reptilian eyes, I said sarcastically, “So, did I pass the test?”
“Yes.”
I blinked twice and tried unsuccessfully to read his urbane, starched features. The Diva showed more emotion than this automaton. “I don’t understand.”
“Based on your eye movements, the D.I.V.A.S. program has come to the conclusion that you did not lie during your interrogation.”
I squelched the urge to say I told you so!
“However, there is a great difference between not lying and telling the truth. Normally, passing the D.I.V.A.S. test would be enough to free yourself from suspicion. But your phone records offer a compelling contradiction to your testimony. Combined with a compelling motive for the murders, that offers us enough evidence of probable cause to hold you over for trial.”
“But I passed the test.”
“Article 34.A of the new 2104 Interrogation Bill passed by the city council two weeks ago allows the lead investigator to override test results in the case of probable cause.”
I stared at him, speechless.
I was aware that the legislature had passed a law designed to add so-called teeth to the bill that had established Q.E.D. two years ago. But I hadn’t realized the “teeth” would be biting my rear end.
“I’m innocent, Townsend,” I said. “If you’re going to abuse due process in the name of public safety, you ought to at least wait until you have a real criminal at your mercy.”
His gray eyes glittered keenly. “Don’t tell me you didn’t consider the new law when you elected to face the Diva. Didn’t the public defender assigned to your case tell you that?”
I hadn’t given him a chance, but I wasn’t about to admit that to Townsend. “No, he didn’t.”
“That’s a pity.” Townsend’s lips turned up in a shadow of a smile. “Angel Baker, you are now officially charged with double homicide.”
No question about it. The fat lady had sung, loud and clear.
Chapter 4
Guilty Until Proven Innocent
The sun was coming up when I finally emerged from the Crypt under armed guard. We stood a moment at the discreet underground entrance, taking in the fresh air. A pink mist hovered over the lake to the east, and across the street coils of silver steam rose from the Chicago River, an entrenched waterway that snaked through the city, splitting it in two.
Momentarily forgetting my troubles, I breathed in the glorious scent of city grime and baking pastries. A deli at the corner was about to open. Freshly brewed coffee wafted from the storefront’s vents. It was a little after 5:30 a.m. Rush hour was a noisy bubble about to burst. Meanwhile, the streets remained surprisingly tranquil. A light breeze picked up, and a little tornado of discarded papers and candy wrappers whirled around us, then rolled away, so much urban tumbleweed.
God, I love this city, I thought, feeling a surge of affection that brought moisture to my eyes. Funny how the threat of imprisonment could make you appreciate even the downside of urban life.
“There she is! Angel! Angel Baker!”
Tensing, I looked to my left and saw a couple of television live trucks parked on the other side of the street. Several well-dressed reporters hurried toward me with photographers dressed in flak jackets and combat boots trailing after them, cameras mounted on their helmets, their wireless controls imbedded in their touch belts. The photographers looked as if they were ready for a war zone, which was a good description of some downtown streets they had to cruise on various news assignments. The reporters could hang back and do a live report on the set with the anchors, but the photogs had to dodge sniper fire and gang wars to get pictures for air.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said to the cop gripping my right arm. He watched the approaching media without batting an eye.
Suddenly feeling abused, I realized this journey down the block from the station to the criminal processing center had been arranged specifically so that the media could get me on camera. It was one of many ways the police and the media worked hand-in-hand. We could have taken the underground passageway between the center and P.S. #1, but then the reporters wouldn’t have gotten their all-important “pictures.”
This was what my foster-brother Hank Bassett, a television producer, called “walking the suspect.” The police made sure suspects were paraded for the cameras. In return, the grateful press was more inclined to give cops favorable news coverage. There was nothing overtly unethical about the arrangement, but now that I was a suspect, it all smacked of collusion.
The walking shot would then be used over and over again on the news as file footage whenever there were new developments in my case. I would be forever immortalized in newsroom archives. Even if I won the Nobel Peace Prize twenty years from now, they’d pull out this footage of me in handcuffs for a retrospective of my life. Oh joy.
“Okay, let’s go,” the cop finally said when four camera crews were practically breathing down my neck.
“Angel, did you do it?” shouted one female reporter, shoving a microphone the size of a pen in my face.
I jerked my head away and kept walking. The camera operators walked backward in front of me, their head gear recording my every grimace and scowl.
“Angel, do you have anything to say to the Chinese girls you rescued?” said a good-looking male reporter.
“Why did you kill the mayor’s son, Baker?”
I turned sharply to see who had shouted this last outrageous question and came face-to-face with Rodney Delaney, a gruff, gray-haired reporter who had been in detox at least five times for five different addictions, according to Hank. Delaney’s face had more lines than a sushi chef’s cutting board, and his nose had more skeins of broken veins than the legs of an aging drag queen.
“What did you say, Delaney?” I demanded to know.
“Who paid you to kill the mayor’s son?” he shot back out of the side of his mouth, clearly trying to egg me into a good sound bite.
I jabbed his chest with a forefinger. “Look here, you presumptuous, drunken, ambulance-chasing—”
“Back off, Delaney!” A man in his midtwenties, with red hair and light freckles, pushed his way through the crowd. It took me a minute to realize it was my foster brother. Hank shoved Delaney back, then pulled me into a fierce hug. Though handsome, Hank was stocky and soft like a teddy bear.
“Wh-what are you doing here?”
He looked down at me with a world of worry creasing his forehead, then said to the cop, “Officer, I’m Hank Bassett, a relative and a producer at WFFY-TV. If you’re going to walk my sister, then you’re going to have to walk me, too.”
The officer nodded and we moved ahead. Hank held out an arm, forcing the reporters to keep their distance.
“Back off!” he shouted. “Come on, give us a break. You got your voice-overs, now go on back to your vans.”
Finally, we gained some distance from the news crews. Hank explained that was because they needed some wide shots to intersperse with the close-ups they’d already recorded, not because the reporters were having mercy on us. Accepting the bizarre fact that we were now both newsworthy, Hank placed his arm around my shoulder and held me close. I leaned into him, fighting tears. He was my kid brother and he’d rescued me. He’d fended off his own colleagues to protect me.
“Thanks, pal,” I said with emotion. “I owe you.”
“Everything’s going to be okay, Angel,” he reassured me. “I called Mom and Dad when I heard the story on the p
olice scanners. They’re waiting for you in the processing center. They’re working on getting you a lawyer. Maybe Jack Berkowitz, he’s one of the best.”
“Okay.” I wasn’t going to turn down legal help a second time, although I didn’t like having to trouble Henry and Sydney for it. They were the Evanston couple who’d rescued me from two years of hell in an abusive foster home after Lola had gone to prison for bookmaking. The Bassetts were well-to-do, educated and had completely accepted me into their family. At times like this, I didn’t feel worthy of their unconditional love.
I hated having to face Henry after embarrassing him like this, and I worried that he’d taken the news of Victor’s death very hard. My fears were confirmed when I entered the family conference room on the third floor of the criminal processing center.
Henry sat at the table, looking older than his sixty-five years. His silver hair was not quite in place and shadows lined his cheeks down to his Vandyke. Sydney sat by his side, looking lovely as usual, with her frosted hair pulled back in a bun and the best makeup money could buy, which made her look as if she wore none, except for the coral pink on her quick-to-smile lips.
She was the first to see me, and the look of worry and relief that washed over her about broke my heart.
“Angel!”
“Sydney,” I said. We hugged tightly. I inhaled her Armand Gervais perfume and the comfort it brought me made my eyes puddle up. “Thank you for coming.”
She patted my back, then gripped my forearms and regarded me fiercely with her pastel blue eyes. “We’re here for you, Angel. One hundred percent.”
I nodded but was unable to find the words to express my gratitude. I glanced over at Henry. He hadn’t budged. He still sat, his tall, lanky frame sprouting from the small chair.
“Henry?” I said, but he didn’t respond.
My heart started pounding. I could take just about anything—a bullet, murder charges, even a guilty verdict—but I couldn’t bear Henry’s disapproval. I walked slowly forward and sat across the table from him, searching his face for forgiveness, just as I had when I was a child reporting for punishment.