The Gray Zone

by Daphna Edwards Ziman

  “Hey, Cooper,” said Jake, taking note of the enmity in the cop’s eyes. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  “I shouldn’t even be letting you in here,” barked Cooper. “Especially since this doesn’t involve a mobster or a corrupt CEO.”

  Jake held his anger, and calmly said what he knew Cooper already knew. “Suzanne Garrett asked me to come. I’m representing an old family friend.” Jake knew there was nothing Cooper could do to keep him out. Off the murder scene at least—the investigation was a different matter.

  “I didn’t know lawyers like you had old friends,” muttered Cooper.

  “Lawyers like me would surprise you in many ways,” replied Jake without smiling.

  Cooper glared a moment. “It’s this way,” he said finally, turning away. “Brace yourself. As they say, it’s not pretty.”

  Jake clenched his teeth on the elevator ride to the twenty-fourth floor, saving his questions until after he’d seen for himself the incomprehensible. Cassie held a tissue to her eyes. Cooper stayed in motion, rocking back and forth on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back.

  In the suite, the curtains were open and the early morning sun poured in. Clamp lights positioned around the room gave it the appearance of a photo shoot venue. As he scanned the scene, Jake took in the officer vacuuming, the woman dusting for prints, the photographer shooting bed linen draped on the sofa. Men were on their hands and knees, combing the carpet with gloved hands. He didn’t see Porter. The bed was empty, the covers rumpled and thrown over the floor. The chair was covered with papers, and Porter’s laptop was open on the desk. A black silk robe lay in a pool on the floor by the window. Jake looked back toward the sitting room. That’s when he saw that the photographer wasn’t taking pictures of bed linen. It was a body. Porter’s body.

  “He’s over here,” grunted Cooper. “You want to take a look?”

  Jake nodded, trying to appear matter-of-fact, and was relieved when his phone rang. He pulled it out of his jacket and uttered a simple hello.

  “It’s Suzanne. Are you there yet?”

  “Just got into the room.”

  “Is it true, Jake?”

  “Suzanne. Can you wait five minutes?” Jake heard Suzanne’s voice catch, but then she answered evenly, “I’m here. Call me back.”

  Jake silenced his phone and slid it into his pocket.

  Cooper stood over the body, looking annoyed. Jake forced himself to take two steps closer. The click-whirr of the camera shutter seemed louder than normal as it put in freeze-frame what Jake was already experiencing in slow motion.

  Click-whirr. It was Porter, no question. His body, naked, was splayed awkwardly—his hips on the sofa, his upper thorax mangled. Click-whirr. Like a target. Like a dismantled hangman, Jake found himself thinking. Click-whirr. Porter’s head canted at a right angle to his shoulders, a huge gash from ear to ear severing his neck in a mess of blood. Click-whirr. Click-whirr. Porter’s handsome face in a hideous grimace, one eye open, one closed. His thick, sandy hair matted black with blood. Click-whirr. Blood on his hands, both clenched into fists.

  Jake had seen enough. He turned away and forced himself to say something.

  “What time do you think this happened?” He noticed Cooper gesture impatiently at the photographer, who lowered her camera and moved away toward the windows.

  “Between one thirty and three.”

  “What else?”

  “There’s no sign of forced entry. It looks like whoever did it was already in the room with him. We’ve got what appears to be semen on the sheets. Also, long blonde hairs in the bed and on the floor. Probably female, though it could be either sex, at this point, but there’s also lipstick on one of the pillowcases. Though that’s not conclusive evidence, either, that the companion was female.”

  Jake covered his mouth with his hand and pretended to be clearing his throat. Porter had had a lover? How had he not known that? This close to the election, and Porter was having an affair? Or was this a one-night encounter? Or a setup?

  “It’s definitely female. Porter wasn’t gay or bisexual,” said Jake.

  “You know who it was?” said Cooper, showing the first spark of animation Jake had seen so far.

  Jake shook his head.

  Cooper snorted. “It’s going to be impossible to keep it quiet any longer. Someone’s going to have to go feed the beast soon. The cameras are all over this like flies on meat.” He glanced at Jake’s angry face and, out of respect for the dead, apologized. “Sorry.”

  “Detective!” called a voice suddenly. “You need to see this.”

  Jake followed Cooper and the photographer into the bedroom in time to watch one of the investigators pull the bedspread off the floor. Underneath was a platinum blonde wig. The photographer fired off one, two, three, four quick shots in a row. She moved behind the investigator and squeezed off four more frames, then nodded at the investigator. He lifted the wig in his gloved hands and peered inside.

  “More blonde hairs,” he reported. He put his fist in it and held it up, giving it the distinct shape of a head. The wig was of good quality and appeared to have been cut and styled by a professional.

  “Seems like platinum blonde wigs are in style,” muttered Jake.

  “What?” said Cooper.

  “Marilyn Monroe wigs,” replied Jake. His eyes narrowed. “I had a very sexy encounter with one last night.”

  Cooper looked disgusted. “Did it happen here in this suite?”

  “Fuck off,” grunted Jake. Cooper moved away for a closer look at the wig. Grateful to have a moment to himself, Jake glanced once more into the other room at Porter’s body. A different photographer was standing over it with her camera. The irony was hard to miss. As a congressman and, until this morning, a candidate for the U.S. Senate, Porter Garrett had spent most of his waking moments trying to look good in front of the camera. These would be his last pictures.

  For nearly two decades Porter Garrett had been Jake’s closest friend. They had met as prosecutors in Las Vegas, fresh out of law school. Young, idealistic, they had been superheroes then, going after the scum of the earth who preyed on the innocent and the good. They had developed a healthy competition with each other, and their friendship was built as much on respect for each other’s legal skills as on their mutual desire to rid the world of bad guys.

  But they had a core difference in outlook, and inevitably their career paths had diverged. Porter relished the logic of the legal system, believed in its overall fairness and overlooked its flaws in favor of the good it did. Politics for him was a perfect fit, and once he had started running for office, he had never lost. His popularity in the House of Representatives had gotten national attention, and he’d been tapped to run for the Senate, with the implication that he was being groomed for the White House. The campaign was in its final weeks, and Porter had been making impressive gains against his opponent—a crusty old incumbent named Theodore Henckle, who—conventional wisdom had it—was unbeatable.

  While Porter had grown more idealistic over the years, however, Jake had grown more cynical. Both men took to victory like a shark to the smell of blood, but after a while Jake had stopped seeing the difference between the criminals he put behind bars and the people whose vast fortunes supported the system he was sworn to protect. Too many times Jake found himself seeing things from the defendant’s point of view, understanding the complicated circumstances that led a person to commit a crime—in some cases, a very serious crime. The more he saw of the justice system in action—outside the sterile classrooms of Harvard Law—the more Jake saw the subtleties and started losing his faith.

  So he had abruptly given up his practice as a prosecutor in Las Vegas one summer and moved to Los Angeles to become a defense attorney. “A high-priced defense attorney,” Porter always pointed out, never passing up a chance to tease his friend. It was a testimony to the character and intelligence of both men that they had remained close. The transition had not dented his friendship w
ith Porter Garrett; it had, however, earned him the hatred of just about every cop on the Las Vegas force. The moment he’d seen Cooper at this scene, bringing back the memory of their scorn and derision, Jake had known he would not be welcomed any further into this investigation.

  He turned toward the window, away from Porter’s horrific body, and fought the urge to throw up. Jake knew one thing for sure: He had to get out of there right away.

  * * *

  Kelly’s eyelids were growing heavy in the overcast, shadowed morning as the headlights of the oncoming cars flickered in a hypnotic dance that threw her back to another ride, another vehicle, back to her teen years.

  She forced her mind to focus on the reflection of the beam of headlights passing by as they created a light show on the ceiling of the limousine. They helped to drown out his voice violently pounding in her ear, “You’re my wife! You are mine! I can do whatever I want with you!” as he forced himself into her, over and over again. The car lights, dancing to a frantic rhythm, drowned his presence, her cries of pain.

  She felt nothing.

  Somewhere in her mind, his voice echoed, mashed in with the voices of many other men who had hurt her. A revolving door of strangers, all paid to be there as caregivers in the broken foster care system.

  Her present reality awakened her to the fact that she was once again entering the unknown, a zone of comfort where nothing was familiar, and nothing was anticipated, where no emotions were put on the line. Acutely aware of how dangerous love could be, Kelly was certain that leaving Porter had been a must, and that escaping now into the unknown was her only way out.

  * * *

  Jake found Cassie with her phone to her ear, pacing by the elevators near some local agents wearing Nevada FBI Windbreakers. It reminded him to turn his ringer back on. The phone rang immediately, just as Cassie was finishing up her own conversation.

  “Brooks,” he uttered, and paused, listening. “Howard,” he said firmly into the phone, “we’ll do a statement. In about an hour. We’ll call you.”

  He felt a movement by his elbow and turned in time to catch Cassie as she fell forward into his shoulder. They hugged awkwardly. She was trying to speak but managing only to force out little sobs of air. Finally she cried hoarsely, “I found him. I had to get security to open the suite, and I saw him …”

  Jake gripped her shoulders. As Suzanne Garrett’s assistant, Cassie was called on to lead a life that revolved entirely around protocol. Unfortunately, and especially in such grim circumstances, she was the quintessential overeducated, under-experienced recent Ivy League graduate who hadn’t a clue how to behave. Smart and beautiful, with a childhood as sheltered as a Ferrari in a garage, Cassie was brilliant when things went according to her script; when she had to improvise, she fell apart.

  Jake reminded himself that she was young, that he needed to help her pull herself together, back into one piece. And he needed her to be discreet.

  “They’re all calling,” she whined. “The networks, CNN, the wires. K-LAS. They’re sniffing for blood—I don’t know what to say.”

  “You say nothing. Where’s Alana?”

  Cassie wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands.

  “I think she’s on her way here.”

  “Maybe stuck outside, like I was?”

  Cassie’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit!”

  “Pull yourself together,” Jake said gruffly. “Don’t open your mouth to anyone. Find Alana.” Alana Sutter was the political strategist—campaign manager—for Porter’s now-defunct campaign. Jake was surprised she wasn’t already on the scene. Cassie nodded at Jake through her tears as she punched the elevator button.

  Jake’s phone rang again. He held it to his ear and heard Suzanne’s voice.

  “It’s him?”

  “Yes. God, I’m sorry, Suzanne.”

  There was silence on the line. Jake tried to fill it.

  “I’ll do a statement on behalf of the family, if you want. The FBI is sending backup this afternoon—a special team from DC. I’ll be at that meeting.” Jake paused. “I’m getting static from the LVPD. I may need your help.”

  “What are those assholes doing? I’ll tell them where to get off.” Jake had always admired Suzanne’s way of handling hard situations by talking tough. He almost felt valiant, giving her this opportunity to excoriate the local police, so he swallowed his pride.

  “That’d be a help, Suzanne. Thanks.”

  “I won’t be at the press conference.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll handle it.”

  “Alana says it’s best.”

  “She’s with you?”

  “Yes.”

  That made sense, but still Jake was surprised that Sutter hadn’t come to the crime scene.

  “Put her on. I want to run the statement by her.”

  * * *

  An hour later, as Jake stood in front of the assembled news media in a hotel conference room, he spoke robotically.

  “Congressman Porter Garrett of Nevada was found dead in his Las Vegas hotel room early this morning. He appears to have been a victim of homicide. Congressman Garrett will be deeply missed by his family, his friends—and the American people.”

  The lights seemed brighter than usual, the cackle of follow-up questions more cacophonous. Jake was more than accustomed to the media as a result of his highly visible—some might say sensational and glory-seeking—court cases. The TV cameras were sometimes his best allies in getting a case to go his way. He was unsentimental about it, having watched the innocent take the rap simply because they weren’t photogenic, having seen the guilty escape justice simply because they had star quality. He had long ago learned to view talk shows as pathetic arenas for egomaniacal know-it-alls, wasting a public resource to broadcast their opinions simply because their facial features happened to appeal to the cameras. Yet even as he regarded those cameras as the parasites of humanity, sucking the blood out of people in their most vulnerable moments, Jake knew how to manipulate each and every one he faced. And some part of him had always loved it.

  But today was different. Jake realized that he had stood silently just a little too long. The questions were growing louder and louder. Abruptly, he turned his back on the cameras and left the room. Several staffers tried to follow him, but he waved them off. “Five minutes,” he said.

  As he stumbled down the hall, his gut balled up as though he’d been kicked. How could Porter’s life end so abruptly? Here today, then gone in an instant, a finger snap. And soon enough he would be replaced—erased from everyone’s mind. What was left behind? Speeches, important bills, a life of devotion to America? But who was going to remember? Even his children didn’t really know the battles their father had fought, the commitments he kept against all odds. How he was always struggling to do the right thing.

  The pointlessness of a life taken, especially a life so well lived, made Jake want to punch a fist through the wall. Jake knew people who had touched futility and limped back with a vacant look in their eyes—the look of nothing more to lose. Porter had never been that way. Futility had never been a part of his outlook. But everything Porter had felt deeply about would be tinged with this—a gruesome end in a hotel suite. Porter would leave a dim memory behind—if he was lucky. And a sordid mess if he wasn’t.

  Jake found an empty stall in the men’s room and locked the door. He sank onto the toilet seat and, holding his face in his hands, let the silent sobs pound through his body.

  His world had become an instant vacuum. Porter was the brother he’d never had, his conscience, his idol. What was left now? Who could he talk to? Who would listen?

  CHAPTER 3

  KELLY PASSED A BURGER KING AND TRIED TO HOLD her breath, but a whiff of cooking grease seeped in through the vents. With it came another flood of revolting memories.

  Fast-food bags crumpled on the floor of the Cadillac. The pervasive smell of fried food. Knee socks, a tartan skirt, and girlish underpants around her ankles. Her hair in ponytails
.

  Kelly accelerated.

  Her thighs spread open as she lay back on the seat. Faces in the window.

  Kelly swerved around a pickup truck with a gun rack across the back window.

  A cop tapping on the car window. “Alright, knock it off.”

  Her husband’s grin. “But, officer, this is my wife.” Male laughter.

  Kelly flicked on the radio, found a station playing gospel music. She willed the memory away.

  “Mo-om, I’m hungry,” whined Kevin from the backseat. She’d been driving for nearly seven hours, stopping only once for gas. As far as she could tell, no one was following her.

  “That’s why I got off the freeway, honey,” Kelly answered in a singsong voice, peering down the row of plastic fast-food signs as they passed by. Finally she found what she was looking for: a diner that held the promise of a burger made with actual meat and a real slice of pie from a tin pie plate. The kids scrambled into a booth, squirrelly and talkative. Kelly pulled crayons and paper out of her purse and hoped they wouldn’t get too rambunctious. She’d have to find a playground or park eventually, but first she needed to put more distance between them and Vegas.

  While the kids drew, Kelly slipped her Sidekick into her lap. The tiny computer screen snapped into place and, using her thumbs, Kelly navigated through her e-mail. She checked some news sites. Satisfied, she clicked OFF and put the device back in her purse. Her eyes drifted to a television at the end of the counter, tuned to ESPN. A basketball player spoke into a microphone. The diner was close to the Mexican border and busy with breakfast customers, most of whom were Latino workers and truckers. The waitress—a skinny woman in her thirties, with a distinct smoker’s rasp—was friendly, smiling as she brought orange juice and coffee to the table. When Kelly’s ham-and-cheese omelet arrived, she took a bite and was shocked to realize she hadn’t eaten for almost eighteen hours.