by A. W. Gray
“Now, Roscoe,” Gear said, “made himself a big mistake a couple of months ago. He shot a street dealer, blew the guy away because the guy shorted him two twenty-five-dollar papers of coke. His major mistake was that he did it at a party in front of about two dozen witnesses, and his minor mistake was that murder’s a state and not a federal crime. If it had been their jurisdiction, the feds would have hushed the killing up.”
Sharon’s forehead tightened. She’d just been considering pouring herself a cup of coffee, but now dismissed the idea. “And it just so happens,” she said, “that Stan Green is a homicide detective.”
Gear pointed a finger. “You get an A, Miss Hays. The deal—and this is strictly on the QT from my buddy in the Bureau—the deal is that if Leslie stays off the witness stand, the county drops the murder indictment against Roscoe Blade, and the feds in turn leave Leslie’s father alone. The feds consider Roscoe Blade a lot more important to their operations than another developer to prosecute. Lord knows, they’ve got hundreds of those guys.”
“You’re saying,” Deborah North said with a catch in her voice, then cleared her throat and said more firmly, “You’re saying that they’re willing to let a murderer and dope peddler go free, not to mention a savings and loan thief, just to put my little girl in prison?”
Sharon looked at Deb. “I know. It makes me ashamed to have ever worked for the DA’s office.”
“Christ,” Black said, then sighed and said again, more softly, “Christ. Well, there’s the movie deal to think about. Without Midge getting convicted there’s no movie money, and I ’spect Milt Breyer sort of had that in mind when he was wheelin’ and dealin’ with the FBI.”
“God,” Sharon said.
Black leaned back and scratched his forehead. “Well, if the feds are involved, we’re wastin’ our time tryin’ to find Leslie. Uncle Sam’s got places to hide ’em we never even dreamed of.” He folded his hands. “So. Where do we go from here? Without Leslie Schlee we’ve got no abuse evidence. Milt Breyer will laugh us out of the courtroom—if he’s able to laugh after his wife gets through with him. Any suggestions?”
Gear regarded the floor. “Don’t look at me. I pass.”
“There might be one answer,” Deborah North said.
Three gazes shifted as one to look at her.
“Susan,” Deb said. “My other daughter.”
Sharon felt pity like a knife through the heart. “She’s not capable of that, Deb. According to Sheila Winston, she’s blocked the abuse out of her mind.”
“If I talked to her …” Deb trailed off, then said, “I think she’s got guilt feelings about the way Midge was treated in that house. For her big sister she might …”
There was a moment of silence. Finally Sharon drew in a deep breath. “It’s a long shot, Russ. But I may have an idea.”
Black regarded her with ice blue eyes. As daylight had faded and the room had darkened, the older lawyer’s wrinkles had disappeared as if by magic. As he must have looked twenty years ago, Sharon thought.
“I’d be surprised if you didn’t have an idea, young lady,” Black finally said. “What do you think I hired you for?”
42
The mansions stood along Lakeside Drive like Camelot after sunset, shapeless hulks against a blue-black sky, majestic trees lining the street like leafy sentries. To the west, where the land sloped off to form the bank of Turtle Creek, frogs jumped in shock as the tiny white Volvo chugged along, as though even the frogs recognized it as an invader for the lowlands.
Sharon applied the brakes at the entry to the circular drive ascending from the street up to the Schlee home. She sat and thought a minute, then ground the lever into reverse and backed up to park parallel to the curb. She got out, then halted in her tracks. The curb where she’d stopped was painted yellow, so she got in and backed even farther down the hill. Three nights ago you killed a guy, she thought, so why risk a parking ticket to boot?
She walked cautiously up the drive with English ivy above and below, balconies overhead like gun turrets. She’d stopped by her house to change into thigh-length baggy shorts, navy cotton shirt with a Lakewood CC emblem on the sleeve, and white Reebok sneakers. She carried nothing in her hands, no briefcase, no legal documents. She wasn’t paying this visit as a lawyer.
The front of the house was dark, no lights in any of the windows. A pale BMW convertible was parked beside the front porch, and was the only auto in sight. The license plate was personalized: VSCHLEE. That would be the lady of the house, and Sharon was counting on Mrs. Curtis Schlee being at home. Her husband might take his daughter and head for the hills, but no one—not the feds, not the district attorney, not even the Lord himself—was going to remove Virginia Schlee from her Highland Park mansion; if Sharon had Virginia pegged correctly, she’d figure that enduring a marriage to someone like old Curtis had earned her the right to do exactly as she pleased. Sharon hop-skipped up on the porch, raised the brass knocker, and let it fall. The banging noise echoed around inside the house like a series of drumbeats.
Sharon waited. There was no response; no lights came on, no approaching footsteps sounded from within. She knocked again and waited a few more minutes. Still no answer.
She went down the two steps to stand on the drive and look the BMW over. Moonlight reflected from polished fenders. She glanced both ways; up and down Lakeside Drive, the mansions stood quiet as rugged mountains. Across the road by the creek, frogs chirruped and crickets whirred.
Sharon broke into a trot and circled the southern edge of the house, then climbed the ivy-covered hillside. Water-softened dirt gave beneath her feet. A head-high stone wall blocked her path at the top of the rise; by standing on tiptoes she could peer inside the grounds. There were patches of mowed and clipped lawn back there, and stone pathways winding here and there through the garden. There were tall white flowers, their petals closed in the darkness like folded bells. Beyond the garden a light glowed; in the distance water splashed. Sharon thought fleetingly of dancing class as she high-kicked over her head and hooked her ankle on top of the wall. She took a deep breath and then vaulted over, hanging in midair for an instant before her feet thudded into spongy grass. Her breathing quickened as she took the nearest pathway and headed toward the light at the back of the grounds.
The artificial glow grew brighter as she moved through the trees, and the splashing noises grew louder. She passed a gazebo, more rows of tall white flowers, and two sculpted nude maidens whose arms were about each other’s waists, and whose free arms pointed longingly in opposite directions. The mansion towered on her left, climbing ivy covering its walls. The odor of honeysuckle wafted into her nostrils. A mosquito whined hungrily past her throat; she slapped the insect away.
She finally emerged from the grove and stood overlooking a swimming pool. It lay in a valley of mowed lawn, and was half the size of a football field. A high diving platform stood at one end like a scaffold. Lights beamed beneath shimmering surface ripples. Wavering blue-green shadows danced on treated concrete, and on lounges, tables, and chairs made of cedar planks.
A strong, supple, and graceful swimmer moved through the water. One brown arm moved upward to bend and pose as the face turned to breathe. Then the face disappeared beneath the surface as the arm descended in a powerful stroke. A fluffy beach towel was piled on one of the end poolside tables. Sharon trotted down the grassy slope and sat in a chair. She crossed her legs, folded her arms, and waited.
Virginia Schlee reached the bank, grasped its edges, raised herself out of the water, and braced her foot to shove off on another lap. She wore no bathing cap; dripping honey blond hair clung to her shoulders. Her gaze fell on Sharon; she gasped and froze in place. As if in a trance, she let her legs slide down into the water. Then she pulled herself up and rested her elbows on the bank.
The two women watched each other.
Finally Virginia said, “Hand me
that towel.” It was more of a command than a request.
Sharon didn’t stand, but snatched the towel and tossed it over on the bank. Virginia showed a disdainful smirk, then climbed athletically out of the water and toweled her hair. She had a gymnast’s body, supple arm muscles rippling as she massaged her head with terry cloth. Sharon glanced at the slim, taut legs and wiry shoulders and, in spite of herself, felt twitches of envy.
Virginia draped the towel limply across her shoulder. Her French-cut one-piece swimsuit was alternate shades of pink and gold. “I could call the police,” she said.
“I know,” Sharon said. “I’m Sharon Hays, Mrs. Schlee. I was here with—”
“I know who you are. I heard your knock. Don’t you know there’s no one home?”
Sharon uncrossed and recrossed her legs. “I’m going to talk to you, Virginia.”
“Like hell you are. What do I have to do, put a sign in front?” Virginia sat on the bank, drew her legs up Indian-style, and folded her arms around her knees. “Go away and leave me alone.”
Sharon tugged the hem of her shorts. “To tell you the truth, I expected the bum’s rush from one of your servants.”
“Curt gave them the week off. Didn’t you hear me, Miss Hays? Goodbye.” Virginia stretched her legs out, crossed her ankles, and leaned back on her hands. A smooth thigh muscle tautened, then relaxed. She adjusted the elastic at her hip with a soggy pop. Sharon wondered how old Virginia was. At their first meeting Sharon had suspected cosmetic surgery, but the body was too supple and the face too smooth. Leslie was sixteen. Her mother could be under thirty-five, Sharon’s own age. Curtis Schlee was over fifty.
“I want you to know,” Sharon said, “what Leslie’s backing out on testifying for us is going to cause.”
Virginia pointed a finger. “I want you to know what your staying here is going to cause. It’s going to cause a police car to arrive, and you to go to jail.”
“The last time I was here,” Sharon said, “you seemed to be on our side.”
Virginia vacantly stroked her thigh. “Well, let’s just say I changed my mind. That was then and this is now.”
Sharon slowly shook her head. “We know about the FBI and your husband. The savings and loans?”
Virginia’s mouth softened. One plucked eyebrow lifted. Red-nailed fingers played with the top of the bathing suit.
Sharon felt slightly guilty for bringing up the issue, but wasn’t about to stop at that. “There’s nothing funny about a federal investigation. I know that. And I’d be lying if I tried to tell you the feds can’t take all your assets away and put your husband in jail. But the type of pressure that’s being put on … for you to succumb won’t help Leslie a bit.”
Virginia petulantly ran her fingers through hair damp with chlorinated water. “What would you know about Leslie?”
Sharon steadied her gaze. “I know what any mother would know. Leslie needs to face what happened.”
Virginia looked away again. “I have my daughter’s well-being in mind, thank you.”
Sharon almost repressed the surge of anger which coursed through her, but not quite. “Her well-being? Or yours?”
Virginia’s mouth slackened. To the faint choral accompaniment of lapping water, she said, “Why, one goes with the other.”
Sharon’s jaws clenched. “I’d like to have the time to prove to you that the two are millions of miles apart, but I don’t.”
“Then why don’t you leave?”
“Dammit. Dammit to hell,” Sharon said. “Why are there people who think that money’s the answer to everything?”
Virginia’s head swiveled until she was looking at Sharon head-on. “Well, isn’t it?” she said.
Sharon’s jaw dropped. She didn’t say anything.
“Well, isn’t it?” Virginia said again.
Sharon lowered her eyes. “If that’s what you think, then maybe I am wasting both of our times.”
Virginia’s gaze roamed, first falling on the pool, then on the huge house in the background, the second-floor landing with its white molded stone railing. “Do you have any inkling of how hard I’ve worked for all this, Miss Hays?”
Sharon looked up. Virginia had said, “How hard I’ve worked,” as if Curtis Schlee hadn’t lifted a finger. “I suppose you have made a few sacrifices,” Sharon said. “But I’d be careful that I wasn’t sacrificing my child.”
“That’s the most off-the-wall thing I’ve ever heard. Without all this Leslie would have nothing.”
“Unless,” Sharon said steadily, “she still had your love.”
“She does have that, and a whole lot more,” Virginia said. Her eyes relaxed in a faraway look. “I was seventeen when I met Curt, and working as a cocktail waitress down on Greenville Avenue. You were supposed to be eighteen to serve liquor at the time, and I had to come up with phony ID to get the job. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be seventeen and on your own, with no one to help you?”
“Well, not at seventeen,” Sharon said. “But I did wait tables to get through law school, and I had a baby to support at the time.” She wanted to add that she hadn’t taken some rich older guy up on his proposition, either, but she stopped herself.
“If you know what’s happening with the FBI,” Virginia said, “then you’ll know what we’d be risking if Leslie testified for you. Everything we have, including this house, is tied up with those loans.”
“I agree that you could lose every dime, but you might not lose your daughter, Virginia. The way you’re going about it, you can forget Leslie.”
Virginia looked down at her lap. A drop of water fell from the tip of her nose onto a bare leg.
Sharon flipped her bangs away from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Let me tell you a story about a mother I know. Midge Rathermore’s. She gave up her children for money, some time ago. Maybe you should ask her if it was worth it. She’s dying to have her little girls back, but one’s in a crazy house and the other one’s going to prison. At least she is unless I can talk some sense into you.”
Virginia firmed up her mouth. “What do you mean, talk some sense into me? My daughter’s not going to prison, remember? And neither is my husband, and no one is going to touch our assets unless I do what you’re suggesting.”
Sharon felt reason slipping away, mentally tried to relax but couldn’t. “Your assets? Your child is a bit more than an asset, Virginia. My daughter and I don’t have very much, but we’ve damn sure got each other. What’s Leslie got as it is? A mother who looks like an Olympic athlete and a father who is in with the politicians, both of whom, when Leslie wants something, throw some money at their child and tell her not to bother them? Oh, yes, I forgot. Leslie had some real nice playmates. The Rathermores.”
Virginia Schlee straightened her posture. “Don’t you dare talk to me that way. The Rathermore thing was a mistake that won’t happen again.”
“Oh?” Sharon said. “How can you be sure of that? God, Virginia, one of Leslie’s classmates had a friend whose father gave Leslie dope and took her to bed. So what are you going to do? Buy her more friends?”
Virginia extended a finger toward the garden. “You get out of here the same way you came.”
“So now,” Sharon said, “Leslie’s own father’s afraid of going to jail, which he likely deserves, and Leslie’s mother’s afraid she might lose her big house and servants and whatnot. So the solution is to tell Leslie to hide. If she has to leave one fancy private school behind, no problem, just whip out the old checkbook and send her off to another.”
Through her anger Sharon watched Virginia Schlee, searched for some sign that she was getting through to the woman. Virginia’s posture slumped some, but her expression was stone. Sharon caught her breath and went on.
“Well, I’ll tell you something, Virginia. If you don’t make Leslie face facts and tell what happened to
her at the Rathermores’, you’re going to lose her. If you haven’t already. You’ve got a sixteen-year-old addict on your hands as it is, and if you don’t change something you might wake up and find a couple of kids in your bedroom with a gun or tire tool. I won’t lie to you and say the feds are bluffing, because if Leslie does testify they’ll very likely send your husband to jail. But if it saves Leslie, it’ll be worth it to both of you.”
Virginia opened her mouth in shock. “My God, how can you … Worth it to us? You … just don’t understand. I’m truly sorry about Midge Rathermore, but it’s a tough world. You have to protect yourself.” She lowered her gaze. “Goodbye, Miss Hays.”
Sharon stood, her body trembling. “All right, it’s your choice. I’ve got my little girl. If you don’t want to try to save yours, it’s your business. You can catch the rest of the trial on TV or in the newspapers. If Midge goes to prison, I hope you think all …” She looked toward the house, gesturing. “I hope you think all this makes up for that. To Leslie and to Midge.”
She walked away without another word, up the grassy slope with blue-green shadows dancing on all sides. Just before she entered the tree grove, she paused and turned. Virginia Schlee hadn’t moved, her shoulders hunched over her knees as she sat on the concrete, her body perfect, her gaze steadily on her own sun-browned feet. Sharon felt no pity for the woman. She resumed her brisk pace, wanting out of there, wanting familiar surroundings. On her way to climb the wall, she passed the sculpted maidens. They seemed lost and very lonely.
Sharon drove the Volvo out of the rich man’s neighborhood, headed for East Dallas at nearly breakneck speed. Once inside her own little house, she took a picture of Melanie down from the mantel. The photo was two years old: Melanie, leggy as a colt, smiling on tiptoes in her pink ballet costume. Sharon carried the picture into her bedroom, set it on the dresser, and stared at the likeness of her daughter for a long, long time before she finally went to bed.