She opened the door, but Hannah had one more thought.
"Do you think Archer will blame you because you were the one who found out about Lexi?"
Josie didn't answer. The door closed leaving Hannah to speculate to Max the Dog and clean up the paint and brood about all the questions that torture a young mind. Josie jogged down the street. Thoughts of right and wrong, Lexi and Tim and Colin peeled away from her as she ran. Josie thought a little about Jude and missed him. She couldn't change the way the world worked, and she didn't want to. Her crusading days were long gone and home was Hermosa Beach, quiet and comfortable as the sun hid behind cloudy sky.
Josie blew past Burt's, saw that business was good and decided to make Archer settle his legal debt by taking her to dinner when they were done with the garage. He needed to be part of the town again. Josie ran past a house under construction and admired the brickwork. She turned off the bike path, circled around Archer's building and found him in the garage just where he said he would be.
"Hi."
Josie stepped around some boxes and over a basketball to get to him. She kissed the top of his head before planting her hands on her hips, catching her breath. Archer wrapped an arm around her legs.
"You're out of shape, Jo."
Archer raised his face to her. He didn't smile but she saw it resting there in his dark eyes, that old level playing field she loved so much. Now, though, there was a long scar on one brow to remind her she wasn't perfect, that she had doubted and he had paid for it.
"I could still take you down," she laughed and stroked his hair.
"If that's a proposition it will have to hold."
"Guess I better pitch in and help if I'm ever going to get any quality time with you."
"You've got energy to spare. Drag all that stuff out to the dumpster." Archer gave her butt a pat as he let her go.
"You're sure you want to get rid of all this?" Josie kicked through the mess, hefted the first box and looked over her shoulder.
"Yeah, babe," he answered without hesitation.
Josie didn't ask again. Once all this was gone, the wounds would heal faster. Josie made four trips to the dumpster and was headed back for a fifth. Yet, as she bent down to gather up some stray papers, Josie realized something was wrong. Archer was still in the corner but now his shoulders were slumped, they trembled and Josie heard the heart breaking sound of weeping.
Carefully, quietly, she picked her way through the memories of his life with Lexi and knelt down beside him. This had been coming, Archer's moment of overwhelming honesty and Josie was glad she was here for him. She was about to speak, about to let him know all would be well, when Josie realized this was not an expression of relief, nor was he lamenting his lost wife. Archer was weeping because he had been injured anew and the wound was deeper than any before it.
In front of Archer was the white box that Josie rejected as being too small to hold anything of importance. Now it was open and Archer had taken a stack of papers from it. He held them tight against his chest and when Josie took hold he pulled them closer still. Josie pulled harder, silently insisting that he let go.
When he did, she lowered herself to the ground beside him but Archer didn't want to be near her. He got up, walked to door of the garage, raised his arms and held on to the top of the open door as his head hung low. Josie looked long enough to reassure herself he was not leaving before she smoothed the papers and started to read. Unable to believe what she was seeing, Josie shuffled through one letter after another after another again. Her eyes moved but her mind lagged behind. She pointed at the words as if to sound them out and understand the meaning.
Dear Lexi,
Oh God.
I'm sorry. Please, just tell me where Tim is. Let me see him. . .
Damn you, Lexi.
Please, I was wrong. I won't bother you. Let me see my son. . .
You manipulative bitch.
Please, Lexi. Please.
Colin
Josie's head fell back. She stared at the naked beams of the ceiling. That old fine line; it was here in these letters. Colin had told the truth. He had tried to find his son but his pleas could not break Lexi's bitterness, and Lexi's hurt had no room for Colin's repentance. Archer loved a woman who was a liar and Tim died because she was cruel.
Josie let the letters fall to the ground. Twenty of them. Maybe more. Remorseful letters that begged for forgiveness. Those letters had been forwarded by the company that managed the apartment building. That was the only way Colin knew how to get a hold of his ex-wife. The letters were addressed to Lexi Wren, her maiden name. Colin didn't know she had remarried. Lexi used Archer, hiding behind him, not wanting to be found.
Josie went cold and let her head fall forward. What had she done to Archer? How could she have insulted such an honest man, questioned his motives and integrity, painted him with the same brush as she painted her own mother?
Then and there Josie made a promise. She would make it up to him if he would let her. Josie would give Jude these letters if Archer would allow it. They would prove Colin Wren deserved to be compensated for the loss of his son. Love and affection had not only been lost, it had been willfully denied by a woman Colin had once loved and Archer adored. Colin wouldn't have a case against Pacific Park but he would be vindicated.
Gathering up the letters, Josie put them in the box and sealed it. Finally, she looked at Archer. Lexi had used him and Colin and even Tim. She had sucked the life out of three good people before her own was snuffed out.
Women could be so cruel.
Getting up, Josie went to Archer and put a hand on his shoulder. It was not enough. He didn't move. Josie wrapped her arms around him.
"All of it was a lie, Jo," Archer whispered.
"I know," she said back.
After that Josie Bates put her cheek against Archer's back, closed her eyes and fell silent.
<<<<>>>>
Claim Your Free Gift!
The Hitchhiker's Guide to The Witness Series
in PDF format
Go back to Contents
Turn the page to read PRIVILEGED WITNESS
PRIVILEGED WITNESS
Privileged Witness
E-book Edition
Copyright © Rebecca Forster, 2010
All rights reserved
Published 2006 by Signet Fiction
The e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then you should return to your bookseller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Though certain elements of this novel were suggested by actual events, it is a work of fiction. All characters, whether central or peripheral, are purely products of the author’s imagination, as are their actions, motivations, thoughts, and conversations, and neither the characters nor the situations were invented for them are intended to depict real people.
For my husband
CHAPTER 1
The half-naked woman had come from the penthouse— she just hadn't bothered to use the elevator. Instead, she stepped off the balcony eleven stories up. Her theatrics kept Detective Babcock from a quiet evening with a good book, a glass of wine and some very fine music. Detective Babcock didn't hold a grudge long, though. One look at the jumper made him regret that he hadn't arrived in time to stop her.
Beautiful even in death, the woman lay on the hot concrete as if it were her bed. One arm was crooked at an angle so that the delicate fingers of her right hand curled toward her head; the other lay straight, the hand open-palmed at her hip. On her right wrist was a diamond and sapphire bracelet. A matching earring had come off at impact and was caught in her dark hair. Her slim legs were curved together. Her feet wer
e small and bare. Her head was turned in profile. Her eyes were closed. The wedding ring she wore made Horace Babcock feel just a little guilty for admiring her. She carried her age well so that it was difficult to tell exactly how—
"Crap. I think I felt a raindrop."
Babcock inclined his head. His eyes flickered toward Kurt Rippy, who was hunkered at the side of a pool of blood that haloed the jumper's head. It was the only sign that something traumatic had occurred here. It would be different when the coroner's people turned the body to take her away. When they cut off the yellow silk and lace teddy at the morgue and laid her face up, naked on a metal table, they would find half her head caved in, her ribs pulverized, her pelvis shattered. Her brain might fall out and that would be a sad sight, indeed. How glad Babcock was to see her this way.
Elegant.
Asleep.
An illusion.
Raising a hand toward the sky, he checked the weather. Even though the day was done it was still hot. He could see the thunderheads that had hovered over the San Bernardino Mountains for the last few days were now rolling toward Long Beach. Pity tonight would be wet when the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year had been bone dry.
"Are you almost done?" Babcock asked, knowing the rain would wash away the blood and a thousand little pieces of grit and dust and things that Kurt needed to collect as a matter of course.
"Yeah. Not much to get here. I bagged her hands just in case, but she looks clean."
Detective Babcock bridled at the adjective. It was too pedestrian for her. Hardly poetic.
She was pristine.
She was beautiful.
She was privileged.
She was a lady who was either going to or coming from something important. She was going or coming alone because no one had run screaming from the penthouse distraught that she had checked out of this world in such a manner. The traffic on Ocean Boulevard had slowed but not stopped as the paramedics converged on the site, sirens frantically wailing until they determined they were too late to help. With a huge grunt, Kurt stood up and rolled his latex gloves off with a delicate snap.
"That's it for me. I'm going to let them bundle her before we all get wet. I hate when it's this hot and it rains. Reminds me of Chicago. I hate Chicago . . ."
He took a deep breath and stood over the woman for a minute as his train of thought jumped the tracks. His hands were crossed at his crotch, his head was bent, and his eyes were on the victim. He seemed to be praying and his reverence surprised and impressed Detective Babcock. Finally, Kurt drew another huge breath into his equally big body, flipped at the tie that lay on top of his stomach instead of over it and angled his head toward Babcock.
"How much you think a thing like that costs?"
"What thing?"
"That thing she's wearing?" Kurt wiggled a finger toward the body and Babcock closed his eyes. Lord, the indignity the dead suffered at the hands of the police.
"I believe that type of lingerie is quite expensive."
"Figures. Guess her old man could afford it. Now me? I think Kim would look real good in something like that, but with what I take home . . ."
A sigh was the only sign of Babcock's irritation as he moved away and left Kurt Rippy to lament the limitations of a cop's salary. Then it began to rain. Just as the last vestiges of blood were being diluted and drained into the cracks of the sizzling sidewalk, Detective Babcock walked across the circular drive, past the exquisitely lit fountain of the jumper's exclusive building, and went inside. There was still so much to do, not the least of which was to talk to one Mr. Jorgensen, the poor soul who had been making his way home just as the lady leapt. Old Mr. Jorgensen, surprised to find a scantily clad dead woman at his feet, made haste to leave the scene as soon as the emergency vehicles arrived. He probably couldn't offer much, but a formal statement was necessary and Babcock would take it.
He rode the elevator, breathing in the scent of new: new construction, new rugs, new fittings and fastenings. Babcock preferred the Villa Riviera a few buildings down. The scrolled facade, the peaked copper roof, the age of it intrigued him in a way new never could. He got out on the third floor and knocked on the second door on the left. He waited. And waited. Eventually, the door opened and Babcock looked down at the wizened man with the walker.
"Mr. Jorgensen? I'm Detective Horace Babcock." He held out his card. The old man snatched it.
"It's about time you got here," he complained and turned his back. The carpet swallowed the thumping of the walker but the acoustics of the spacious apartment were impeccable. Babcock heard the old man's every mumble and word. "I should be in bed by now but I can't sleep. Something like this is damn upsetting at my age. Have you told her husband? Bet you can't even find him to tell him. Goddamn pictures of him everywhere. Can't turn on the television without seeing him but is he ever home? No. Never home. Well, in and out. But not good enough for a woman like her. Nice. Quiet. Real pretty, that woman. So, have you told him yet?"
"Yes, sir. We have located her husband. He'll be here soon."
Deferentially slow, Babcock followed the old man but something in his voice seemed to amuse Mr. Jorgensen. The old man stopped just long enough to flash an impish smile over his shoulder.
"Bet he's got a load in his pants now, huh?" Mr. Jorgensen wiggled his eyebrows, chuckled and walked on, telling Babcock something he already knew. "Yep, it's a big, big mess for a man in his position."
CHAPTER 2
The last time Josie Baylor-Bates had seen Kevin O'Connel he was wearing prison issue that marked him as the criminal she knew him to be. Unfortunately, a jury of his peers hadn't been convinced that he had beaten his wife Susan to within an inch of her life.
Though she swore it was Kevin, an expert defense witness testified that Susan's head injuries had resulted in an odd type of amnesia. Her husband was the last person she saw on the day of the incident, ergo Susan O'Connel transferred guilt to him. When the DA failed to get a conviction Josie suggested another way to make Kevin O'Connel pay for what he'd done: a civil trial where the burden of proof was not as strict and the damages would be monetary.
Susan O'Connel had been partially paralyzed because of the attack. She was in hiding, in fear of her life since her husband hadn't been put in jail. Josie had argued that Susan deserved every last dime Kevin O'Connel had ever—or would ever—make.
Now the civil trial was over and Kevin O'Connel was squirming as solemn-faced jurors filled the box. He shot Josie a nervous, hateful look that she didn't bother to acknowledge. Instead, she watched the foreman hand the decision to the clerk, who read the settlement with all the passion of a potato growing:
"The jury finds Kevin O'Connel guilty of assault with intent to kill and awards Susan O'Connel special damages in the amount of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars and general damages in the amount of one and a half million dollars. We further find that the assault was committed with malice and award Susan O'Connel—"
"That's crap! What the fuc—" Kevin O'Connel shot out of his seat. While his attorney grappled with him the spectators gasped and the judge gave warning.
"Go no further, Mr. O'Connel!"
Josie heard the scuffle, heard Kevin O'Connel curse his attorney and, finally, heard him fall silent as the judge threatened contempt and imprisonment. It was a scene that didn't seem to interest Josie. She pushed her fountain pen through her fingers, and then did it again, concentrating on that so the court wouldn't see an unseemly grin of satisfaction. Josie was pleased that she had come close to ruining Kevin O'Connel. He deserved worse. He got it a second later. Another five hundred thousand in punitive damages was awarded.
Finally, Josie smiled at the jury as they were dismissed with the court's thanks. It was over. Susan O'Connel was a rich woman on paper and Josie would do everything she could to collect for her client. Wages would be garnisheed, the retirement account cleaned out and the house they had shared sold. Josie would make sur
e Kevin O'Connel surrendered his car, his boat—she'd take his toothbrush if she could. Every time Kevin got a little ahead. Josie would be there with her hand out on behalf of her client.
It had been a very good day and it was just past noon.
Picking up her briefcase, Josie reached for the little swinging gate, but Kevin O'Connel put his hand on it first. He looked Josie in the eye, then pushed it back with a cool loathing that was meant to intimidate. It didn't. Josie walked past him, down the center aisle and toward the door. His hatred trailed after her and stuck like sweat.
From her height to her confidence to her power, Kevin O'Connel despised everything about Josie Baylor-Bates. He hated that she won. He hated that she stood taller than he did. Kevin O'Connel hated her intelligence. He hated that she dismissed him when she put her fancy little phone to her ear. He knew who she was calling and that pissed him off royally—enough that he just couldn't stand watching it happen.
When Josie walked into the hall Kevin O'Connel was right behind her. It appeared he was trying to maneuver around her but stumbled instead and knocked her off balance. Her phone clattered to the floor, her arm went out and she steadied herself against the wall. Before she could pick it up, the phone was snatched away.
"Sorry. Guess I better look where I'm going," O'Connel teased, seemingly pleased that he had hit her hard and disappointed that he hadn't hurt her.
Josie reached for what was hers but he held it back like an evil little boy who had pinched a hair ribbon. Slowly he put the phone to his ear.
"Good news, Suzy. You got it all, babe. Everything and then some. Enjoy it while you can." Kevin O'Connel must have liked what he was hearing. There was a glint in his eye that turned to a self-satisfied sparkle before fading to mock disappointment. "She hung up."
"Are you stupid or just a glutton for punishment?" Josie asked, not bothering to try to wrestle the phone away from him.
The Witness Series Bundle Page 62