Retribution: The Second Chances Trilogy Book Three

by M Mayle

  “No, thank you.” She refuses even the water he offers. After a long awkward silence, she ventures to say that the wedding was lovely. “Everything was perfect. Even the weather. And the media was kept at bay, major thanks to you for your fantastic idea. Colin tried to call you about that yesterday morning. He thought you came over with Amanda and was giving the Dorchester switchboard hell until I convinced him you were in the States.”

  “I take it he was less than pleased with the idea.”

  “No such thing. He thought it was brilliant—that’s the exact word he used. He wanted to thank you and invite you to join us.”

  “Really? I thought when I spoke to him just now he was pissed about the balloons. The invasion, he called it.”

  “He was joking, I promise.”

  They ramble on in this manner, staying with safe neutral subjects, all the while listening for the end of the interlude to announce itself in the form of Colin’s arrival.

  “I should start on my statement and get ready for their questioning,” Laurel says when they run out of camouflaging subject matter.

  He brings a steno tablet and pencils from the housekeeper’s desk. Laurel sets them aside, asks if he has a computer. “I think that will work better. I’m not thinking clearly enough to write without a lot of crossouts,” she says.

  “You sure you’re up to it?”

  “It’s all right . . . I’m all right, I can do it.”

  He shows her to the study, boots the PC, activates the printer. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything,” he says and withdraws with the intention of outlining his own statement.

  Before he’s halfway to the kitchen, the chime sounds indicating someone’s on the way up. Before he’s halfway across the foyer, Colin bursts out of the elevator, brushes past him, shooting glances in every direction. “Where is she?” he demands.

  “In the study,” Nate says, his glance fixed on the elevator doors that are about to close.

  At the last possible moment Amanda steps out of the elevator. Tearstains mark her pale cheeks, so she must have some idea what’s happened. She comes to him without a word, wraps him in a weak embrace.

  “I didn’t want to believe what Colin said, but I can tell by your face,” she mumbles into his shirt front.

  “Yeah, it’s true. The sonuvabitch got David and he damn near got Laurel.” Nate holds her as close as he can bear with his good arm.

  “I knew I shouldn’t let David take you to your house! I fucking knew it!” Colin’s voice carries from the study.

  “If he hadn’t, you would be dead now!” Laurel matches his tone.

  Amanda’s gasp goes straight through him when she hears this ugly truth enunciated. Fortunately the door to the study slams shut before any more truths can be overheard.

  “I wouldn’t take that too seriously. Anger’s always easier to express than grief,” Nate says and gives her what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze. Amanda reciprocates, he winces and emits his own gasp.

  “You’re hurt!” She lets go and backs off. “Good lord, were you involved? Were you there when it happened? What did happen anyway?”

  He gives her a condensed version and a promise to fill in details when the detectives arrive.

  “I can go with that. Good idea. Then you won’t have to tell the whole story more than once.”

  “Exactly, and all the more reason to get the others over here before five when the detectives are due.”

  “Laurel’s family, you mean.”

  “Yeah. Bemus and Tom Jenson too. I want them all under this roof by four-thirty at the latest. I want them all kept here until the media frenzy abates and there’s some reason to believe Colin and Laurel are not under direct threat. Laurel agrees with me that absolutely no one will look for them here, and it goes without saying that a private property’s easier to secure than a hotel.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me, but I didn’t hear you say when the doctor’s scheduled to arrive.”

  “What doctor? Oh, you mean for Laurel. The paramedics looked her over at the scene and—”

  “For you! Anyone can see you’re hurt by the way you’re standing—all caved in on one side. And what about your arm? Can you move it at all? What did the paramedics say? I know—you didn’t let them examine you, did you? Dammit, Nate, you should be in a hospital and here you are—”

  “Can you give it a rest? You haven’t even kissed me hello and I have to be subjected to all this bitching and moaning?”

  “Well, I can certainly see what you mean about anger being easier to express than grief,” she says and gives him a chaste peck on the cheek, taking care not to come in contact with any other part of him.

  “Fine! Have it your way. I’ll call Walt Finch. He’s here in the building and owes me a favor.”

  “I’ll call him.”

  “Go ahead, be my guest, but I won’t see him until we’re finished with the police. And before you do anything, get in touch with Bemus. Put him in charge of moving himself and the others over here as soon as possible. Oh, and tell him not to check anybody out and to be extra discreet about transferring luggage.”

  “He hasn’t had time to return to the hotel yet, but when I do reach him, how much else should he be told?” she says as they move toward the kitchen and the nearest phone.

  “If he knows David’s been killed, that’s enough for now.”

  In the kitchen, Amanda grabs the steno pad and a pencil from the breakfast table and begins taking notes on the hoof. “Someone better call England before they hear about this on the Sky Channel,” she says, pausing at the center island work station to jot a few things down. “And how about household staff?” She heads for the desk. “You’ll want them recalled, won’t you? If not, this place will resemble a frat house in nothing flat. And there are meals to think about.” She settles in the desk chair and makes several more notations. “Meals for nine people for who knows how long. I think you’ll want more than a part-time cook on hand.”

  “I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but that’s not a bad idea, not a bad idea at all.”

  None of her ideas are bad, including the one about him seeing a doctor, he acknowledges while struggling to maneuver an extra chair into the space next to her. And woe unto any newcomers who might label her a mere assistant or—God forbid—live-in secretary, despite outward appearances. He allows her to look up Dr. Finch’s home number in the building directory while he digs around in a drawer for a list of time-tested domestic help.

  “You never cease to amaze,” he says when she pauses her activity for a moment.

  “Why, because I appear coolheaded? Don’t be fooled. When I run out of things to do and I’m satisfied you are all right, then I’ll have hysterics, then I’ll fall apart. You can count on it.”

  From a spot at her elbow he listens to her convince a Park Avenue physician to make a house call on his day off. Seven p.m., she writes in a space after the doctor’s name. Then she concentrates on connecting with Bemus now that he’s had time enough to return to the hotel. “He’ll have everyone here within the hour,” she says at the finish of that call.

  She thinks to call the Glen Abbey police to inquire about the status of his car, specifically the personal items contained in the trunk; she wonders aloud if she should call the mortician who’s presumably waiting for Laurel to show up with a suit of clothes for her dead father.

  “If the Wolcott police are following through, they’ll have ordered an autopsy for Mr. Chandler. Wardrobe’s incidental at this point,” he says.

  “How about David’s people?”

  “The police will have contacted them by now.”

  “But will they have told them David’s death was a mistake—that Colin was the intended victim?”

  “Jesus, I hope not. And I hope to hell you’re not thinking of filling them in.”

  “I’m not, but I can’t help wonder if they’ll blame Colin once they do find out . . . I mean, like Rayce’s family did.”

>   “I’m sure they’ll want to.”

  “That is so unfair.”

  “Yeah, it is, but life’s unfair and so is death.”

  She ponders that non-earthshaking remark for a second or two, chews on the blunt end of her pencil.

  He’s prepared to hear her views on unfairness but she’s already moved on. “Brownell Yates,” she murmurs. “We have to get hold of him. Yes. Yates and the PI, Harry Newblatt.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “They should be called in. They can contribute to the investigation.”

  She’s right, of course. Embarrassingly right. Amanda’s thinking is where his ought to be—would be—if his ribs and shoulder didn’t hurt like hell and he weren’t fighting off the urge to retire to a darkened room and scourge himself for the tragedy. If the Sebastian family wants someone to blame, it should be him, not Colin.

  The least he can do is take over the clerical chores and free Amanda to apply her skills to more demanding tasks. Especially now that it appears he no longer has to remain in the shadows where Colin is concerned. But he has only Laurel’s word that an olive branch is forthcoming and no word at all regarding Colin’s willingness to accept sanctuary.

  “I’ll take care of the remaining contacts,” he says.

  She hands over the phone without argument, then calls him chicken when he asks her to bring the Rolodex from the study, where Colin and Laurel are still closeted.

  The Glen Abbey detectives arrive with a member of the Wolcott Police Department in tow. That has to be a positive sign. Encouragement can also be taken from the improved behavior of the senior Glen Abbey guy, who is all civility and consideration as he introduces himself, his partner, and the Wolcott addition as Detectives Grillo, Helowicz, and Moffat.

  Amanda would say it’s the refined atmosphere that has the three of them figuratively tiptoeing; he’d say it’s the celebrity in their midst that has them taking pains to mask personal interest as he ushers them to seats at the dining room table.

  The others at the table have all been told enough that they’re exhibiting some degree of shock. Those newest to the situation, Laurel’s brothers and sister, are most affected. The girl is teary-eyed above the wad of Kleenex held to her nose; the two young men are clearly unnerved behind their grim façades. Colin and Laurel are composed in the way store mannequins are composed—stiff and expressionless. Bemus and Tom Jensen are thin-lipped and stoic, but their body language suggests they see this as their failure.

  After establishing who the extras are, Detective Grillo wastes no time asking Laurel to begin.

  She reads from a prepared statement and everyone in the room recoils as she describes witnessing David’s death, then fighting off the assailant with garden tools. When she explains the necessity of battering down the garage door, a sob escapes her sister and Colin grimaces and bows his head.

  Detective Helowicz adds parenthetically that, upon inspection, the electrical plug for the garage door opener was unseated, just as Laurel theorized.

  The questions the two Glen Abbey detectives throw at her relate mainly to the physical characteristics of the assailant, whether he said anything to her, and if so, what.

  “The man I saw was medium height, no more than five-seven or eight. Medium build, black collar-length hair, skin color and features consistent with those of a Native American—with those of one Hoople Walking Crow Jakeway, whose photograph he closely resembled—with the difference he now has a nasty gash on his chin, one that will leave a scar. As for what he said . . . he said . . . he shouted nothing intelligible . . . nothing I could understand.”

  “And who is this Jakeway guy?” Grillo asks.

  “Mr. Isaacs is better prepared to answer that than I.” Laurel responds.

  Nate flips open the thick Jakeway file Amanda retrieved from the study. “From the beginning?” he asks Grillo.

  “Affirmative,” the detective says. “But before you get started, refresh my mind about who you are and what your relationship is to the deceased.”

  “Which deceased?” Nate scowls.

  “Don’t you remember? This is the Floss guy.” Detective Helowicz coaches his partner in a stage whisper. “This is the guy Lassiter drilled after he found the old lady hanging out the window of the house a few doors down from today’s crime scene.”

  “Oh, yeah. Right, I’ve got it now. And when Lassiter followed through it turned out Isaacs had inroads with both the Chandler woman and the rock star, so that ties him to both of today’s deceased—Chandler’s father and the rock star’s lawyer,” Grillo says as though none of those mentioned were in the room.

  Nate lets the insult go unremarked because now that the detectives are satisfied with his identity and his right to be involved, the moment is at hand. The long-awaited moment has arrived and damned if his throat doesn’t close and his vision blur when he glances down at handwritten pages outlining events dating back to April of this year.

  But that wasn’t the true beginning; the true starting point was in November of ’84 when he first ignored indicators pointing to an outcome like this. That’s where he ought to begin if he could bring himself to do it with Colin present.

  “I have an idea,” Amanda says after he’s stalled for at least thirty seconds. “The only events that are not documented in that file are those that occurred today.”

  That’s not entirely true, but he doesn’t interrupt when she proposes omitting his narrative and turning the data over to the detectives to study in depth.

  “Then all you need to provide is your statement on today’s events,” she says as though that will amount to nothing more than a walk in the park. But, by comparison, maybe it will.

  Without waiting for him to agree, Amanda leans into his space, closes the folder and pushes it in the direction of Grillo. The detective uses up another thirty seconds in mute assessment of his colleagues, who eventually nod agreement.

  “Subject to your remaining available for further questioning, you understand.” Grillo accepts the folder and resumes the crusty attitude that characterized him at the crime scene. “So? What’re we waiting for? Let’s have it. Let’s hear how your day went, Isaacs,” he says.

  At the conclusion of Nate’s testimony, the Wolcott detective takes over the inquiry. By now the gallery has heard as much as it wants to hear—needs to hear—and begins to trickle out of the room, one and two at a time. Amanda excuses herself to transcribe the shorthand version she took of his official statement, and Moffat puts fine points on questions already asked about what was found in Mr. Chandler’s rest home bathroom.

  This recapitulation lasts for a half hour—a half hour the Glen Abbey detectives spend poring over the Jakeway file at the far end of the long table.

  After Moffat rejoins his colleagues, the three whisper together for a few minutes, then Moffat speaks for the group in announcing that neighboring law enforcement agencies will receive an updated description of the perpetrator, but that description will not be released to the media.

  “So don’t expect to hear your guy named unless you spread the word—which I strongly advise you and your cohorts not to do. And don’t expect to see his picture on the front of a tabloid or displayed in your local post office. Too soon for that. Way too soon. Don’t wanna drive this guy underground or instigate a witch hunt, if you get my meaning.”

  “Your meaning’s clear,” Nate says.

  “Good. So once we’ve got an autopsy report on the old gent at the nursing home, we’ll have more to go on. That’s saying the massive stroke he allegedly suffered was brought on by an administered cocaine overdose. But I’ve gotta warn you. Even if the alleged drug residue you discovered in the nursing home john does pass analysis, there’s still a long way to go—a very long way to go toward establishing the drug didn’t originate with a healthcare worker or that it wasn’t intended for that worker’s own use. And there’s the angel of mercy angle. You know, one of them do-gooders that see it as their divine right to end nee
dless suffering.”

  “Shit,” Nate mutters.

  “On the positive side, angels of mercy seldom use street drugs and who’s to say we won’t come up with an eyewitness. Someone may have seen a Jakeway look-alike on the premises and we may get something from surveillance cameras. But you gotta understand, this all takes time,” Moffat concludes and pockets the small voice recorder he’s used throughout.

  The two Glen Abbey detectives have nothing positive to add as they prepare to leave. Despite their earlier eagerness to acquire background on Jakeway, they now strike him as unconvinced of anything other than the means of David Sebastian’s death. They’re vague about when they’ll be in touch with Yates and Newblatt and noncommittal about pursuing the other promising leads provided.

  Desultory best describes all three detectives when Amanda returns with his word-processed statement. While he’s signing it, they talk about the best route back to Jersey and what they’ll get to eat on the way.

  Disappointment numbs him to everything except the pain in his shoulder and ribcage. The sense of being right back where he started is enough to send him into denial again. But he did find cocaine residue in the nursing home bathroom. He did see the gaping wound spanning David Sebastian’s throat. He did hear Laurel identify the assailant as one Hoople Jakeway. And Aurora’s head was attached the first time he confronted her dead body.

  Amanda jars him from these rationalizations with the announcement that the doctor is waiting for him in the study.

  — SIX —

  Early evening, August 15, 1987

  The low angle of the sun says it’s past suppertime when Hoop makes it back to Route 22 and the motor lodge. He pushes the battered bike the last hundred yards and lets show the punishing pain that rode with him like an extra backpack for the full distance—a distance made longer by the need to stay out of sight as much as possible—a distance that took only three-quarters of an hour to cover when he was going in the other direction on a bus outfitted with a bike rack.