Mr Kiss and Tell

by Rob Thomas

  She took the outstretched cup. “You brought him in?”

  “Yeah, he’s in interrogation room three. He’s talking to his lawyer right now.”

  She’d known Leo since she was in high school. Back then, he’d been the cute new deputy in the Balboa County Sheriff’s Department, with a smile that was part impish, part bashful, and one-hundred percent charming. They’d flirted shamelessly and even dated briefly. But Veronica’s life had been too complicated for a nice guy like Leo. Not least of her problems had been a sudden and growing attraction to her dead best friend’s boyfriend—one Logan Echolls.

  Still, they’d stayed friendly. She’d called him as soon as she’d gotten the lab results. Even though Bellamy’s crimes were in Neptune’s jurisdiction, she didn’t trust Lamb’s department to follow through.

  Leo held the door open for her and led her through a bustling lobby to a bank of elevators. “I had a chance to look over the file. Is there anything else I should know before we go in to talk to him?”

  Veronica briefed him as the elevator crept up, telling him her suspicions about the bag. “But the victim had severe head trauma that left her with short-term memory loss. She’s probably not going to be able to give a positive ID.”

  “Yeah, not surprising.” He grimaced. “I saw the pictures.”

  The elevator opened onto a bustling open room, subdivided into cubicles. Plainclothes detectives worked at computers and talked on phones. Corkboards and whiteboards lined the walls, scrawled with web charts and lists of names. A short, stocky woman spotted Leo and approached them.

  “They’re ready for you in there, D’Amato.” She handed him a manila file folder. He opened it and glanced inside. Then he snapped it shut.

  “All right, Mars. Let’s do this,” he said, opening the door.

  It looked as though they’d picked Bellamy up straight from practice. He wore a Nike T-shirt and his whistle still hung around his neck. His face was flushed dark red, but otherwise he looked surprisingly composed. Next to him sat his attorney, Marty Campbell—an effete-looking little man in a fashionable, obviously bespoke suit. Every part of him that was capable of being manicured had been, from his sculpted beard to his scrubbed and trimmed fingernails. Both men looked up when Leo and Veronica entered the interrogation room.

  “Coach Bellamy…Mr. Campbell.” Leo shut the door. “I’m Detective Leo D’Amato. This is Veronica Mars, who’s been consulting with us on this case.”

  Bellamy’s eyes met hers, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. She didn’t look away as she sat across from him at the rectangular table.

  “We’ve met,” she said, folding her hands on the table in front of her.

  Campbell’s lips curled tightly into a disparaging smile. “Detective D’Amato, this is ridiculous. You’ve hauled my client in on the flimsiest possible evidence. Let’s end this before it becomes a major embarrassment for your department.”

  Leo’s heavy eyebrows arched up. He opened the manila folder and removed a photo of Grace Manning’s body, sliding it across on the table. Her face had been blurred out—even with the DNA evidence, they liked to be cautious with survivors’ identities—but the severity of her injuries was unmistakable and shocking. Veronica watched Bellamy’s face closely. His expression didn’t change, but his pupils dilated.

  “A nineteen-year-old woman was assaulted in Neptune the morning of March seventh,” Leo said. “We have DNA evidence—which your client willingly provided—linking him to the attack. Lawyers usually don’t find that kind of evidence flimsy.”

  “First of all, I’d hardly call the means by which your…uh…associate obtained the DNA swabs to be evidence of ‘willingness,’ ” Campbell said smoothly. “She broke into his office and, when caught, accused him of sexual assault in front of his supervisor. He was pressured to provide that sample. Second, there’s a rational explanation for the presence of his DNA at that crime scene.”

  “I’m all ears,” Leo said.

  It was Bellamy who spoke next. His eyes were still glued to that picture, his face and neck flushed. But his voice was quiet and deliberate, his words almost over-enunciated.

  “I did have sex with that girl,” he said. “But I didn’t rape her.”

  Veronica couldn’t contain her derision. “So breaking half a girl’s ribs and choking her until she passes out is foreplay? Come on, Coach, even if rough sex is your thing no one’s going to believe an innocent man dumps a girl’s body ten miles from where they were last seen together.”

  “But I didn’t.” His pale blue eyes finally flitted up from the picture. “When she left my room she was fine. I don’t know who did this to her, but it happened after we went our separate ways.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this allegedly consensual sex when I swabbed you?” Veronica asked. “You knew what I was looking for. Why didn’t you clear it all up when you had a chance, a week ago?”

  Patches of purple sprang up across his face, a color that perversely resembled the mottled bruises in the picture in front of him. “Well, Ms. Mars, the fact is, I was embarrassed.”

  Veronica leaned forward. “Of what? Having sex?”

  Bellamy crossed his arms. “No. Of having sex with a prostitute.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Veronica felt frozen to the spot. Her legs were heavy against the chair, her hands clenched against her thighs. She stared across the table, her mind a blank, all of her theories and assumptions floundering with one sudden electric jolt.

  Next to her, Leo sputtered in shock. Bellamy leaned forward, elbows on the table, while his lawyer smirked beside him. For a moment the air felt scarce, the room too small and close.

  It was Leo who recovered first. Swiping his hand over his face, he fought to regain composure. “So you’re saying you hired this girl?” He looked down at the photos of Grace Manning’s battered body, unable to keep a note of skepticism out of his voice.

  But even in her numb state, Veronica had to admit it sounded plausible. She mentally replayed every conversation she’d had with Grace, every seemingly unanswerable question about the case. Bellamy’s assertion credibly answered them all. It explained why Grace wouldn’t tell them the name of her boyfriend. It explained why she used the stairs instead of the elevator, in an effort to stay off the surveillance cameras. It explained why Charles Sinclair hadn’t been a DNA match even though he’d obviously recognized the photo. He wasn’t the boyfriend. He was a boyfriend. Why had she not even considered that possibility before?

  “My client has a very prominent position in the community as a representative of Pacific Southwest’s basketball program,” Campbell put in. “It’s no surprise he’d want to avoid a scandal.”

  “Okay,” Leo said, regaining his composure. “Okay. Let’s start at the beginning. I need you to tell me everything you remember about that night, Mr. Bellamy. From the beginning.”

  Bellamy pressed his hands together, looking down at his fingertips. “We played Hearst that weekend. Our boys won and after the game we all went back to the hotel.” He hunched his shoulders slightly, as if embarrassed. “I was lonely. I haven’t had any time to date since my divorce a few years ago. Been too busy with work, you know? It takes over. Anyway, I was looking at some sites online, and I saw her ad. I’d never hired a call girl before. It’d never even occurred to me. But then, you know, kind of on a whim, I called her up. She sounded sweet—soft-spoken, easy to talk to. So I set up an appointment.”

  The footage Veronica had watched over and over spun through her mind. She saw Grace in her designer dress, her high heels, the makeup, all of it designed to make her look expensive.

  “What time did you call her?” Leo asked, scribbling notes on a legal pad.

  “I guess it would’ve been about nine, nine thirty.” Bellamy cleared his throat. “She said she’d come to my room at eleven.”

  “All right. What did you do then?”

  Bellamy glanced at his lawyer. “I killed some time in my room. Wat
ched TV, checked e-mail. I ordered room service champagne for when she got there.”

  “Did she arrive on time?”

  Bellamy nodded. “Yeah, she showed up just before eleven.”

  Veronica noticed that the man’s eyes kept flitting to the photo of Grace’s injuries on the table, lingering there as he talked.

  “And then what happened?”

  Bellamy actually blushed. “Well, you know, we talked for a few minutes. Had a glass of champagne. And then we…we had sex.”

  His forehead crinkled anxiously, and his face was droopy and hangdog. He seemed incapable of meeting anyone’s eyes. Veronica had, over time, become well attuned to near-ineffable signs that could give away a liar. She had to admit she wasn’t picking up any of those tells right now. Bellamy just looked like a scared, chastened, middle-age guy staring into the face of public shame and potential unemployment.

  “After that, she went into the bathroom and tidied herself up,” he continued. “I paid her, and she left. Like I said, she was fine when she left my room.”

  “Did you see how she left your floor of the hotel?” Veronica asked.

  Bellamy gave her a blank look.

  “Stairs or elevator?” she said impatiently. He shrugged.

  “I don’t know. I locked the door behind her and went to sleep.”

  “Around what time was that?” Leo asked, giving Veronica a quelling glance; she wasn’t supposed to be asking any questions. She pressed her lips together.

  “Around midnight. I paid her for an hour.” He looked at the picture again. This time he stared openly. “Maybe she had another client after me. Someone who did this to her.”

  Veronica managed to keep her mouth shut, but her eyes narrowed at Bellamy. For a moment, he met her gaze, his watery blue eyes mild and almost apologetic. She thought of how cool he’d looked as he checked out of the hotel, how he’d known exactly how to act then too.

  “Now, if that’s all, we’ll see ourselves out.” The lawyer said. Leo nodded, and the lawyer and Bellamy stood. Veronica watched as Bellamy exited the interrogation room and headed toward the elevators behind his lawyer, free to go.

  “It’s a good-sounding story, and he sold it like Olivier, but he’s lying,” she said under her breath as soon as the door closed. Leo didn’t answer. “I mean, come on. The last time we see the victim on camera, she’s going straight to his room. And his was the only semen the medical examiner found.”

  Leo didn’t respond. He just closed his notebook and pushed back from the table. “Come on, Veronica. I’ll walk you out to your car.”

  She exhaled loudly, and nodded.

  As soon as they were on the elevator, he turned to face her. “Straight up, Veronica—do you buy his story that’s she’s a prostitute? Or have you maybe known that she was one all along and kept it under your hat for some reason?”

  He didn’t sound angry so much as confused.

  She shook her head exasperatedly. “If I’d thought so for even one second I’d have told you.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “But it’s not like you to miss something like that.”

  “I didn’t miss it. She hid it. Well. And we still don’t know it for a fact. I’ll be damned if I’m going to blow up this whole investigation just because Rape Suspect Number Ten Billion plays the ‘it was consensual’ card.” Veronica paused as the elevator doors opened. She and Leo stepped off and walked through the lobby in silence, before pushing through the glass double doors onto a sunlit plaza beyond.

  Veronica stopped to pull a pair of sunshades out of her handbag, then stared into the distance for a long moment. “Leo,” she finally said, “We’re not half as smart as people give us credit for.”

  “You’re describing a problem with which I’m totally unfamiliar,” Leo said, bewildered.

  “Detectives in general, I mean. Conan Doyle deluded a century of readers into thinking we’re all deductive geniuses.”

  Leo laughed. “You mean like: ‘It’s elementary, my dear Watson. The bird poop on this hat came from a species of lark that only exists in one village in Romania, so that’s where our killer is from.’ ”

  “Yeah. But that’s not how it usually works, right?” said Veronica. “Often as not, it’s some feeling or intuition we start with. And we’ll charge straight ahead with that belief, even when the evidence for it seems…less than crystal clear. Look, we need to check out Bellamy’s call girl story because it changes a lot of things. But true or not, a bottle of the finest Chianti says he’s guilty.”

  “I believe you.” He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “But this case is pretty much over now. You know that, right?”

  She stopped in her tracks. “What do you mean, over?”

  “Veronica, there’s no prosecutor in the country who’d take this to trial. And if they did, the defense would just turn the whole thing into a bad joke.”

  “I’m not laughing,” she snapped.

  “Neither am I, okay?” For the first time a defensive note crept into his voice. “But I can’t bring him in if the Neptune DA doesn’t want to prosecute. You understand what I’m saying?”

  Chastened, she looked away. “I’m sorry, Leo.” The sun was starting to sink below the tree line. A cool breeze moved in off the ocean, but the day’s heat still radiated from the ground. They started walking again, across the parking lot toward her car. “But I’m not giving up. There’s got to be some way to get this guy.”

  “Yeah. Well, my CO’s gonna have me on a short leash for a little while because of this, so I’m not going to be much help.” He watched her for a moment, his face serious. “But Veronica, if there’s something I can do, you let me know. Promise?”

  She hugged him, a quick impulsive squeeze, and moved away by the time he realized what was happening.

  “You’re a prince,” she said. She rummaged for her car keys in her purse, and then, finding them, opened her door. Before climbing in, she paused. “I’ll call you soon, okay? I owe you big.”

  He lifted his hand in farewell as she backed out of the parking spot. As soon as she pulled out onto the road, she hit the gas pedal, hard.

  It was forty minutes to Neptune, and she had a lot of questions that needed answering.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Grace Manning lived in a small apartment complex on a street lined with pawn shops, grimy convenience stores, and check-cashing operations. There was no landscaping to speak of, just cracked pavement littered with cigarette butts and broken glass. The cars in the parking lot were all at least ten years old, some on blocks. An overflowing Dumpster at one end of the property hummed with flies.

  Veronica climbed the steps and knocked sharply at the door of unit 205. She stared baldly at the peephole and waited. Something moved behind the door. Then there was a silence that seemed to stretch on for minutes at a time. Finally, the door opened.

  Grace Manning stood in the doorway in slouchy jeans and an OREGON SHAKESPEARE FESTIVAL T-shirt. Her hair was tied back with a red bandanna. She looked like a normal college girl.

  “We need to talk,” Veronica said.

  The girl’s expression was hard to read. She opened the door a little wider and gestured wordlessly for Veronica to enter.

  It was like an oven in the little apartment, the air hot and motionless. The walls were paste-gray and cracked. A single north-facing window looked out on the parking lot, so dirty almost no light came through it. A twin-sized mattress lay directly on the floor. Next to that was a wooden cable spool with a laptop resting on top, Haim playing softly from the speakers. Clothes hung along a plain metal pipe on the ceiling, probably two dozen outfits total. No evening gowns, no silk, no sequins. Just the cotton and denim of an undergrad’s wardrobe. A stained mini fridge and an ancient stove stood in the kitchenette.

  Grace had obviously made an effort to give the place a Bohemian, theater-dressing-room feel. A pink jacquard bedspread was draped over the mattress. Playbills, signed by fellow cast member
s, lined the walls: The Cherry Orchard, The Birthday Party, Endgame, Les Liaisons Dangereuses. A bouquet of dried roses sat in a wine bottle on the windowsill. But the flourishes of color were swallowed by the shadows, and the whole effect was somehow sadder than if she hadn’t tried at all.

  Veronica wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but this dismal efficiency didn’t look like the kind of place a high-end escort would live in. The squalor somehow made what she was about to say seem like a slap in the face.

  “There’s not really anywhere to sit,” Grace said. “Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. We can stand.” Veronica crossed her arms over her chest. “We found a DNA match for your attacker.”

  Grace’s face drained of color, her eyes wide with naked panic.

  Suddenly, Veronica had a visceral, gut-deep sense of déjà vu. It was like she was there again: That night, a little over ten years ago, when she and Duncan Kane had broken into the Manning house. That moment when she opened the hidden panel in the closet and saw the scared child, huddled in the cobwebs. I don’t wanna be tested, she’d said. Daddy said I’m not ready.

  The look on Grace’s face now called up that little girl so vividly Veronica felt unsteady. In Neptune, the past was always grabbing at your ankles, trying to pull you back.

  “Who?” The word was a hoarse whisper, barely audible.

  “A guy named Mitch Bellamy, from San Diego.” Veronica squared her shoulders. “But he had a really strange story, Grace.”

  The girl turned away abruptly.

  “He said you were a call girl. That he’d hired you. But, if that were true, that’d be a pretty significant omission from your story.”

  Grace snapped back to face Veronica. “So because I’m a whore that means I can’t be raped?” She spat the words, her panic breaking suddenly into fury.

  Veronica, startled by the suddenness of Grace’s admission, held up both her hands.