“Liane, honey, you should get into bed.” Her hands still had no warmth and I could feel her shivering. “Come on, let me help you.”
She didn’t argue. I got her up on her feet.
“Nick!”
He came in with a glass in his hand. Straight scotch, from the look of it.
“Help me with Liane.”
For once he didn’t have to be told something twice; he set his glass down and took hold of Liane’s other arm, and together we slow-walked her into the bedroom. I shooed him out and got Liane’s clothes off and her into bed. The way she looked up at me with those big, empty eyes was heartbreaking.
The doorbell chimes sounded as I was pulling the down comforter up around her chin. Damn! One of those idiots outside, or the police again, or, worse, one of the media pests already. The bell didn’t go off again, so Nick must have gone to the door. If he had any sense left, he’d send whoever it was away quick.
But he didn’t. I patted Liane’s hand and went out into the living room and heard the sound of voices in the hallway, Nick’s and another man’s. My anger rising, I hurried out there, but when I saw who the man was, the anger faded. Allan Zacks. It was all right for Nick to have let him in.
“Oh,” I said, “hello, Allan.”
“Holly. I just heard about Martin.”
“One of his patients called him up and told him,” Nick said.
I gave him a look. Allan was our dentist, too, now—I’d switched us over when Liane got the job as his hygienist.
“It must have been a terrible shock to Liane,” Allan said. “How is she bearing up?”
“Numb right now. I just got her into bed.”
“She’ll be all right?”
“I think so. After she’s had some rest.”
“I won’t disturb her. I probably shouldn’t have come rushing over, but I was afraid she might be alone. I should have realized you’d be here.”
“Yes, she called me right after the police left.”
“Chief Kells and that detective lieutenant, Ortiz,” Nick said unnecessarily. “They’re the ones who told her.”
“You’ll be staying with her?” Allan asked me.
“For as long as she needs me.”
He nodded. “It’s a relief to know she’s in good hands. If there’s anything I can do …”
“Not just now, Allan, thanks.”
“Then I’ll be going.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “But I’d like to come back tomorrow, if you think Liane would want to see me.”
“Of course she would.”
“I’ll call first.” Then he was gone.
A nice man, Allan. Handsome, too, tall and slim, eyes like chips of green jade. Normally I don’t care for full beards on a man, but his was a beautifully shaped dark brown. Nick had been fairly good-looking once, before he put on twenty pounds and developed that grating whine in his voice, and I still loved him, but if I’d had a choice between him and Allan fourteen years ago, there wasn’t much doubt which one I’d have picked.
I wondered just how Allan felt about Liane. If his concern went deeper than that of employer and friend. Martin had once said, a little jealously, that he sensed Allan was smitten with her. She pooh-poohed that, saying he’d never come on to her, always been a perfect gentleman, but judging from the way I’d seen him look at her now and then, I suspected there was more than a little truth in the notion.
Well, for her sake I hoped he was smitten and that he’d do something about it eventually. With Marty gone and that part of her life over, she’d need a strong, caring man to build a new life with. And there wasn’t a better one around than Dr. Allan Zacks.
TED LOWENSTEIN
From City Hall I went straight to the Clarion offices on Beech Street, six blocks away. Usually only a few of the two dozen staff members come in on Saturdays; today, the breaking story had drawn several. Tyler James, my managing editor, was already working on the front-page layout for Tuesday’s print edition. John Nichols, the best of our field reporters, Phil Goldstein, our part-time photographer, and even Royce Smith, the young interim sports reporter, were there.
I filled Tyler and John in on the facts I’d gleaned from Chief Kells. Tyler volunteered to write the news story. Fine with me since it allowed me to focus on my editorial and sped up the process of getting everything posted on our website. I told him to make sure to include the plea for witnesses. Then I sent Phil out to Echo Park to get whatever shots he could of the crime scene, assigned John to interview Torrey’s widow if he could manage it (not much chance) and/or her sister and brother-in-law. Royce, normally a laid-back kid, seemed excited by the news and asked if there was anything he could do. I told him to check the files for correspondence expressing undue rage toward Martin Torrey, the only thing he was qualified to do. He had no experience at writing anything but sports, and little enough of that. He’d been on staff only a few months, a placeholder until I could find a suitable replacement. His writing was barely competent, he was unreliable in attending to assignments and meeting deadlines, and when Angela was in the office, he spent more time making moon eyes at her than he did working. No future in journalism at all.
“You think this will be the end of it, Mr. Lowenstein?” he asked. “The rapes, I mean.”
“If Torrey was the rapist, yes,” I said. “Mayor Delahunt thinks he was.”
“But you don’t agree?”
“I seldom agree with anything the mayor says or does. You know that if you read my editorials.”
“Oh, sure I do. So you don’t believe Torrey was guilty?”
“I didn’t say that. For once I hope Delahunt is right.”
I had the gist of my editorial worked out in my head, so it didn’t take long for me to write it. Tyler finished at about the same time. I posted both pieces on the website, then e-mailed our online subscribers en masse to let them know the articles were up—the modern equivalent of a newspaper extra. When Phil came back with pics, I’d get those up, too. And anything John came up with.
My juices were still flowing hot, thanks as much to that pompous bastard Delahunt as to the murder. Taking on small-time, self-aggrandizing politicos like him—skewering all varieties of phonies, blowhards, self-promoters, bigots, and climate-change naysayers (he was one those, too)—is one of the great pleasures of owning and editing a small-town newspaper.
That was my goal from the time I came out of journalism school and went to work as a cub reporter on the Portland Press Herald. I’m a damn good newspaperman, if I do say so myself, but I tend to be stubborn and opinionated, I prefer doing things my own way, and I don’t take orders well. Cut out to be my own boss, if anyone ever was.
The first paper I saved up enough to buy, a six-page weekly in a small Idaho farm town, cost me my marriage. Eleanor hated the town, the people, the long hours I put in, and eventually me. I wasn’t sorry when she moved out and filed for divorce; I was glad of it because she didn’t want custody of our seven-year-old kid and I did. I had to sell the sheet to pay Eleanor off, then go back to work as a wage slave to support Angela and me, but as things turned out, it was a small price to pay.
It took me nearly twelve years on three sheets, the last four on the Sacramento Bee, to save up enough to buy the Clarion. And at that, I couldn’t have swung the deal if it weren’t for a couple of friends willing to take a chance and put up enough cash to buy a one-third interest. So far their faith in me and mine in myself had paid off. The Clarion had been losing money when I took over; now it was finally in the black, if only just. An aggressive campaign had brought in more advertising revenue. That, and better news reportage, better features, and some judicious controversy had substantially increased our print and online subscription lists. The recent crime wave had been a factor, too. As much as I hated violence in general and violence against women in particular, sensationalism sold newspapers and always would.
Angela had also been an important part of the Clarion’s modest success. She had come up wi
th the ad campaign, working in consort with the new advertising manager I hired, and also handled the bookkeeping duties. I was afraid she wouldn’t be part of the team much longer, though. The newspaper business wasn’t as vital to her as it was to me. What she had inherited was the same need to be her own boss. Once she finished the night business courses she was taking at Valley JC down in Riverton, her plan was to join a CPA firm and then eventually start one of her own. Here in Santa Rita, I hoped, but probably not if she married her current boyfriend. And that could happen. Tony Ciccoti was the only young man she’d ever been serious about, the one problem with him being that he was from Southern California and intended to move back there one day.
Angela and I had always had a kind of father-daughter psychic connection, and thinking about her sometimes triggered it. Did today. I was about to have a cup of coffee with Tyler when she called on my cell.
Every time I saw her or heard her voice on the phone the past few months, I felt a sense of relief that she was all right. She kept telling me not to worry about her, she was always careful and knew how to take care of herself, but I worried just the same. And would keep on worrying as long as she lived by herself. I loved that girl like crazy. She was all I had except for the Clarion.
“I just heard the news, Daddy. You’re at the office, right?”
“Yep. Tyler’s account and my editorial are finished and posted. Take a look, see what you think.”
“I will, right away. Do the police have any leads yet?”
“No. Too soon.”
She asked the same question Smith had, and that everybody else would soon be asking, and I gave her the same answer. Only time would tell. The important thing right now was the apprehension of Martin Torrey’s assassin. Judging from the various people I’d spoken to and the general tone of the letters to the editor, the community continued to support Griff Kells and Robert Ortiz. But patience was running thin, and if the murder was not solved quickly, or if there were any more violent incidents to ratchet up public unrest, Delahunt and his city council cronies might succeed in throwing Kells to the wolves.
“Are you still coming to dinner tonight?” Angela asked.
Dinner tonight. At her apartment. I’d almost forgotten the invitation, hers and Tony Ciccoti’s. He was evidently something of a gourmet cook—learned it from his father, who was a chef—and Angela was eager to show off his prowess. “I’ll try to make it,” I said. “Depends on whether or not anything else breaks between now and … what time, again?”
“Seven thirty. But we can make it later.”
“I’ll call you no later than six, so Tony won’t have to cook too much food if I’m not there.”
“He’s Italian. He always cooks enough for four when there’s just the two of us.”
I sighed a little after we signed off. I’d miss her a lot if she married Ciccoti and moved away, especially if it was as far away as SoCal. Eleanor had been a bitch, and no more physically attractive than I was; how we’d managed to produce a sweet, beautiful, loyal, generous daughter like Angela was one of God’s own miracles.
ROBERT ORTIZ
I was angrier than I should have been at the murder of Martin Torrey. But I had wanted to prove that he was guilty of the serial assaults, arrest and charge him with the crimes, testify at his trial, see him convicted and sentenced to a long prison term—justice done according to the law. Now that he was dead, his guilt might never be proven. Even if there were no more rapes, the element of doubt would continue.
And now I would have to spend my time and energy hunting the person or persons responsible for his death. The irony in that was bitter.
The probable motive was revenge, carried out by an individual close to one of the assault victims or even by a victim herself. If this was true, then the list of possible suspects was fairly limited and solving the crime should be easier than tracking down an anonymous psychotic. In theory, anyway.
After Jack Spivey, the most likely candidate seemed to me to be Jason Palumbo, whose girlfriend, Courtney Reeves, was the most recent victim. Palumbo had not expressed extreme rage, as Spivey had, or made any veiled threats—it was his attitude and background that made me view him as capable of an impulsively foolish and violent act. Smart-mouthed, plainly contemptuous of the law, with a record of minor offenses: possession of marijuana and methamphetamine, possibly with intent to sell, though that had not been proven, and one count of misdemeanor vandalism. As I had once said to Chief Kells, it was a short step from nonviolent to violent criminal behavior.
But a session with Palumbo would have to wait. He and the Reeves girl—her closest relative was an alcoholic mother—both worked days at the Riverfront Brew Pub on the river basin downtown, and I had no cause to brace him at his place of employment. Later today was soon enough, after I spoke with Spivey.
On the surface, the men closest to the other two victims, Neal Wilder and Arthur Pappas, were much less likely prospects. Wilder, husband of Sherry Wilder, was a successful architect, former one-term city councilman, and member of several civic organizations and the Santa Rita Country Club. Pappas, first cousin and only living relative of Eileen Jordan, was a produce manager at Safeway, a mild-mannered gay man whose contact with Miss Jordan was limited despite the fact that they lived only a few miles apart. Both men were law-abiding citizens, with not so much as a parking ticket to blemish their records, and neither owned a registered handgun. None of this completely ruled out either man, of course. They would be investigated along with everyone else who possessed a potential motive.
As to the victims, the only one who seemed capable of cold-blooded murder was Sherry Wilder. Very angry, very bitter. She had given no open indication of violent intent the times I had spoken to her, but her hatred of the man who had violated her was plainly more intense than that of any of the other women.
I made the Wilder home my next stop. It was in Rancho Estates, where many of the old, wealthy Santa Ritan Anglo families resided. Where Griff Kells and his wife also resided, though theirs was one of the smaller homes in the district. The Wilder house, perched high on the hillside above Echo Park, had been designed by Neal Wilder—a compact place of sharp edges, flat planes, and odd angles, constructed of redwood and a considerable amount of glass. It commanded a broad view of the river for half a mile in both directions, the fields and vineyards that stretched out to the distant hills on the opposite side of the valley. Wilder’s vehicle, a new black Mercedes, was parked in the driveway.
I paused for a moment after I stepped from my cruiser, drawn by the view and a stirring of memory. Many years ago, not long after I began my career in law enforcement with the county sheriff’s department, I had been one of the first officers on the scene of a brutal triple homicide in a migrant workers’ camp across the river. A bracero named Jorge Martinez had gone berserk and slaughtered his wife and two children with a machete—the worst, the most sickening, crime scene of any I had witnessed before or since. Martinez had been seen fleeing through the vineyards, north along the river. In the manhunt that followed, as fortune would have it, I was the officer who discovered his hiding place. He still carried the bloody machete, but he made no threatening move toward me when I flushed him. Instead he again fled.
I pursued him in a fury, the images of his hacked-up wife and children like a fire in my mind. More than once I shouted for him to stop, but he did not, he stumbled toward the river in what I took to be a futile attempt at escape by swimming across it. It was then that I extended my sidearm and took running aim at his back.
Ley de fuga. The unwritten law of Latin American justice that empowers police to shoot fleeing fugitives with impunity, whether or not they are armed. Lynch law, vigilante justice.
I could have shot Martinez that day and gotten away with it. No other officer had been nearby, and at that time there was not as much antipolice sentiment or close scrutiny of the use of deadly force. But I did not give in to the fleeting urge. I am of Mexican lineage, but I do not believe in le
y de fuga or any other such disregard for strict adherence to the laws of this country and the laws of God. I holstered my weapon, caught up to the terrified Martinez at the water’s edge, and subdued him without violence. Later I received both a commendation and a promotion for my actions.
I do not condone vigilantism of any sort. Even if my wife or my daughters or some other member of my family were to be the victim of violence, God forbid, I would not take the law into my own hands. As much as the crime of rape disgusts and angers me, and as convinced as I am that Martin Torrey committed the four brutal assaults, I do not condone his murder, and I will do everything in my power to arrest without violence the person responsible as I arrested Jorge Martinez without violence that day across the river.
Neal Wilder opened the door to my ring—a distinguished-looking man of thirty-seven, with a precise mustache and thick dark hair silvering at the temples. He must have just returned from the country club, for his clothing was of the sort a man wears to play golf. He greeted me cordially and without surprise; news of Martin Torrey’s assassination, as he put it, had reached him at the club, and he had driven straight home to share it with his wife.
“And your feelings about that, Mr. Wilder?”
“Mixed, I suppose. If Torrey was the rapist, I’m not sorry he’s dead.”
“Do you believe he was?”
“I don’t know. With his past record, he could have been.”
“You had no animosity toward him?”
“As matters stood, no. I would have, certainly, if he’d been proven guilty.”
I asked if his wife was home, and when he said she was, I requested a few minutes of her time as well.
He seemed reluctant. “Is it necessary? That you talk to her, I mean.”
The Violated Page 4