“Forgive me for saying that the sheriff isn’t much of a lawman if he jumps from Middle East construction worker to murderer just because I was tired of the constant risks and wanted to live a less complicated life.”
It felt good telling what was mostly the truth.
“It’s not quite that simple, sir.”
“Please, call me Rick.” Sir was just too much to swallow.
“Fine. I’m Erin.”
Their eyes met and Rick almost forgot why they were here. Alone together, in the middle of the night, in a secluded room.
Almost, but not quite.
He nodded.
And she said, “You don’t have fingerprints.”
“I was born with a keratin 14 protein deficiency,” he lied. But it was what had been added to his army medical record fifteen years before, though it would take some time for local law enforcement to gain access to that information. In reality, he and Brady and Saul Woodburn, the real man behind Kit’s alias, had been administered a drug normally used on cancer patients. If it leaked from the right capillaries, it permanently erased a body’s ability to produce fingerprints.
“Have you ever been in trouble with the law before?” Erin had moved on.
“No.”
Rick hadn’t been. And since Tom didn’t exist…
Even if there was a record of Tom Watkins’s existence, Rick would’ve given his attorney the same answer. Lying didn’t faze him.
It kept him alive.
“No bar fights? Nothing that might creep up later and show some latent aggressiveness? A temper? Fits of meanness? Even a random act of anger?”
“Nothing.” Not as Rick Thomas. The little bits and pieces of life he’d spent as himself, Rick had either been working construction in the Middle East, getting some rest in his room at the boarding house in Maine or visiting Steve.
She looked him in the eye again. And Rick smiled. A wholly natural, unplanned, unwarranted smile. It caught him completely off guard.
And so did she.
When she smiled back.
6
Chandler, Ohio
Friday, October 15, 2010
This time when the phone rang, I recognized the number. The fact that Erin Morgan was calling me again so soon—just three days after our first phone call in a year—had me answering after the first ring.
She’d called my cell. But I had a feeling this wasn’t strictly a “keep in touch” call.
“Can I hire you just to chat?” Erin asked as soon as we’d said our hellos.
“Excuse me?”
“I need someone to talk to. Someone who reads between the lines.”
Interesting choice of words. Taking my pad, I moved over to my faded but still-colorful chintz sofa, kicked off my pumps and pulled my legs up beneath me.
“Reads between the lines?” I asked.
“You know, the stuff our subconscious hides from us. Or the stuff we block. The things we reframe but we don’t know we’re reframing. Misplaced perceptions. Motivations we aren’t aware of.”
I did know, but wasn’t used to my clients summing it all up before we’d even begun. More often they were unhappy, depressed, afraid—ruled by negative emotions that were driving destructive behavior—and didn’t think they had the ability to help themselves.
I tried to guide them in finding the internal mental and emotional resources they needed. And sometimes to organize those resources.
Awareness was the key that unlocked most mental doors.
Erin was already aware.
“I’m happy to talk to you. But you don’t need to pay me.”
“Of course I’ll pay you. I’m not going to take advantage of our professional association for personal gain. I don’t want you to think I’m using you. Really. I want to pay whatever your going rate is and—”
“Erin, it’s okay. You aren’t using me. I’m offering. From what I know of you, and what you said the other day, I don’t feel you need my professional services. If I thought you did, I’d recommend you see someone local. If I start to think you do, I’ll recommend someone to you.”
“And I’d probably thank you and say no.” Erin’s candid response was part of the reason I felt comfortable with her. “But I’d feel better if you’d let me pay you,” the other woman continued.
Clinging to independence, I jotted. And wondered if it was off-putting to be friends with someone like me. Who wanted to sit around over a glass-of-wine gab session and have someone taking notes?
As if all confessions would be recorded.
“I know what your expert witness charge is,” Erin said. “Is it the same for private sessions?”
I had lots of friends. Like Sam. And Deb. And…oh, plenty of others around town. I knew practically everyone and…
“Tell you what,” I said before I could analyze myself to death. “How about if we just chat and see how it goes.”
“What do you get out of it?”
I recognized myself in Erin’s independence. And wondered about her inability to let someone else do something for her.
I wasn’t like that. Was I?
“Good conversation?” I replied.
“Are you in trouble? Do you need legal advice?”
I drew a circle. Dotted a couple of eyes in place. “No.” If I did, there was always Sheila Grant, the local prosecutor I worked with on a regular basis. “You might remember, I live in a small town,” I continued. “I’ve probably counseled half the people here—and the other half are related to them. Which tends to make socializing a little awkward.” What was I saying? I socialized. Plenty. And embarrassingly enough, I kept talking. “Sometimes I feel like I’m quarantined. Or infectious or something.”
I did not. My social status had never been a problem for me. I was content. Satisfied. Wasn’t I?
I didn’t want to own the words I’d just said. Or the feelings. And saw my name on them, anyway.
“I know the feeling, although not from the same source. Right now I feel like I’m the woman who puts the bad guys back out on the street.”
She’d made a similar remark earlier. “For you, every day’s a fight,” I said. “That can’t be easy.”
“No. But it’s not as bad as it sounds, either. Particularly when I’m helping someone who’s been wrongly accused. That’s kind of like saving lives.”
“What was it you needed to speak with me about to day? Did something happen?”
“Yes and no. I’m not sure how to describe it. I’m struggling, but I’m not. I’m confused, and yet I know what I’m doing. Maybe I’m crazier than I think.”
“Seems to me that you’re in a very normal transition period. What served you in the past isn’t serving you now. Because you’re moving on. Need more. Or somehow got off track.”
“When I’m working, I’m okay. I seem to know what to do. But when I’m not, I’m second-guessing everything.”
“Like what?”
“Like whether or not I can tell the difference between innocence and guilt.”
“That’s not really your job, is it?” I’d assisted many defense attorneys. I knew the score.
“Not in a legal sense, maybe. But certainly by my own moral code.”
“Guilty people still deserve representation so their story is heard and punishment is just.” I’d worked it all out years ago.
And knew that I’d simplified a deep and disturbing concept so I could live with the system until someone found a better way. I certainly didn’t have one to offer.
“Right. But what if I’ve gotten so good at finding the loopholes that I’m really an accomplice?”
“Are you?”
“I hope to God I’m not.”
“Then my guess is, you won’t be. You care. You’re on the lookout. I don’t know what else you can do, short of inventing a lie detector that’s infallible.”
Erin chuckled. And I grinned, too.
“Have you considered changing sides?” I asked as the thought occurred to
me. “Maybe all of this is your way of telling yourself to move on to another aspect of the law.”
“No. I know it’s not that. I’m where I need to be.”
I didn’t doubt her.
“I’ve got a new client,” she said next. “A guy accused of murder.”
With a steady beat I tapped my pen against the side of my foot. “Tell me about him.”
Erin talked for a couple of minutes, filling me on her early-morning call and the subsequent interview.
“I have to admit that his life leaves room for questions. But, as he said, it’s certainly not criminal behavior to do an unusual job. Someone has to,” I told her.
“I know. And I believe him. I believe he’s innocent.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I’m suddenly wondering if I can trust myself to know the difference anymore.”
“Why do you believe he’s innocent?”
“At first, I just sensed that he was. And that’s how it always used to be. I seemed to be able to tell. But now, I keep remembering this guy’s eyes. They’re dark and shadowed, but…I’m not sure. He…did things to me.”
“Could you explain that?”
“I…I think I found him attractive.”
“You think you did? Isn’t that something you know?”
“Right. Yeah. Probably. I think I’m attracted to him.”
“Enough so that it would be a conflict of interest?”
“Of course not! I’m not in the market for romance. Period. Been there. Done that. My heart was taken a long time ago and…”
Erin had talked to me about her Noah when we’d had drinks the year before. I understood that she’d loved the man, but Erin was far too young never to love again. She’d never even lived with him.
“And sometimes hearts surprise us by coming out of the deep freeze when we’d rather keep them in there, locked securely away,” I said.
Erin’s silence didn’t seem to be an easy one.
“It’s not a crime, you know,” I told her. “Attraction is as instinctive as breathing.”
“It’s been so long since I’ve noticed a guy, really noticed him. And I pick now, when I’m already nervous about the path my career’s taken. With my luck, this guy’s a mass murderer and as long as he keeps smiling at me, I’ll do my best to get him off so he can go kill some other unsuspecting person.”
“You don’t seem the type to fall for a smile. My bet is it’d take a lot more than good looks to pull a fast one on you.”
“Yeah. I hope so.”
“Look, you’ve got everything you need going for you here. You’re doing the right thing, talking through your doubts. If you’ve somehow gone astray with your career choices, you’ll know it soon enough.
“And in the meantime, my money’s on you when it comes to this guy. Because of your current personal crisis, you’re going to be looking at him, at the situation, more closely than anyone else will be.”
“Even if his eyes are mesmerizing?”
“I’d say more so, precisely because of that. You’re going to be extracareful. Extraobservant.”
I had no idea if Erin’s new client was a murderer or not. But I was pretty sure that if he was, she’d find out. And do the right thing.
We talked for a few more minutes and then I glanced at the clock. Deb had a couple of billing issues to go over with me and I’d been hoping to get home before Maggie did, at least one day that week. Since it was Friday, I only had one more shot. Not that I told Erin any of that.
Erin thanked me for my help and then said, “Hey, before you go, just out of curiosity, if you were going to talk to someone, you know, about yourself, what would you say?”
I was in a hurry. I had to go. And once again, my mouth turned traitor on me. “That I’m a new mother and have no idea how to be one.” I couldn’t believe I’d just said that. Would never have voiced anything like that to anyone around me. Someone who was more than a voice on the phone.
“What?” Erin’s shock was clear. “You had a baby? When? Why didn’t you say anything? Did you get married, or is this something you did on your own? I mean, you couldn’t conceive on your own, but after that?”
When I was fairly sure the questions had stopped, I said, “I didn’t have a baby. I’m in the process of adopting a fourteen-year-old ward of the state,” I said slowly. “She was my client until recently, when her mother was arrested for selling her into the illegal drug trade.”
“Oh, my God.”
I needed to talk. Okay, I’d admitted it. And with everyone here in town—well, my role was to be listener. That’s how I liked it. But occasionally…
“What do you mean, she sold her to them?” Erin asked. “What did they do with her?”
“Used her to deliver their packages.”
“Did she know what she was doing?”
“No.”
“Is she…she wasn’t hurt, was she? In my experience, with these types of guys…drugs is only part of it.”
“She’s okay.” At least Maggie’s physical health was in tact. “They kept her away from the stuff, for which I’m incredibly thankful.”
“Did they…they didn’t rape her, did they? Or…sell her that way? Child pornography is a huge business now that the internet’s arrived.”
“She says no. I can’t really go into the details of the whole thing. It’s complicated and, for now, I’m keeping her confidences.”
“Did they get the guys?”
“One of them. He was a cop here in town. I’d known him for years.”
“So he was someone in a position of authority. Someone a young person would trust.”
“Right.”
“Cops don’t fare well in prison.”
“This one’s not going to prison. He’s dead. Another deputy was close to catching him. He set a trap for her. She walked in to find herself facing the barrel of his gun. And managed to shoot first.”
“Lucky woman.”
“You’d have to know Sam.” I switched my pen and, left-handed, drew guns. “Luck had nothing to do with what happened that evening.”
Samantha Jones was a detective now. And newly married.
Which meant I was going to be the only female from our graduating class who wasn’t married. Or hadn’t been married.
I was mostly okay with that. My time would come. If I wanted it to.
“You said one of them. What about the others?”
“A second one died of an overdose. But the one they suspect as the ringleader is a lawyer here in town, and so far, he’s still practicing law and going home to his wife and kids every night.”
“They don’t have enough to arrest him,” Erin summarized.
“You got it.”
“And the kid’s right there in town, too?”
“Yep. But I don’t think he’s going to be stupid enough to try and see her. Sam, the detective I told you about, has him on a tight leash. And he knows she’s looking for a way to connect the dots. He’s not going to risk being seen with Maggie.”
“Apparently he managed to see her before without anyone being the wiser.”
“True, but no one was looking at him, either.”
“So not only can’t they tie him to the drugs, but they don’t have enough to arrest him on contributing to the delinquency of a minor?”
“Maggie’s mother insists he was her daughter’s contact.”
“I’m guessing that since she’s also involved, her testimony could be too easily discredited for a grand jury to indict?”
“That’s what I heard. Then there’s the fact that everyone knows the guy. He’s got a stellar record. Before all this, I would’ve bet my life that he was one of the nicest men I’d ever met. A paragon of virtue,” I said dryly.
“Too good to be true, huh?” Erin’s response came as no surprise. “How sure are they that it’s this guy?”
“Sam’s completely convinced.” Which was enough for me.
“Then hopefully she�
��ll get the goods on him.”
That was my prayer. Every single night.
“What’s it like, having an instant teenager?”
“She intimidates the hell out of me,” I blurted, still thinking about my nightly worry sessions.
“Sounds like you’re facing a transition period, too,” Erin said, throwing my earlier words back at me.
She was right about that.
7
Not knowing what might happen to him in the coming days, Rick spent that Friday with Steve. He stayed the night, too. And had breakfast with Steve the next morning, followed by an hour of fishing. And when Steve went to the birthday party he’d been invited to—a thirty-year-old woman, victim of a skiing accident, whose time without air had left her with the mental abilities of a seven-year-old—Rick hugged him goodbye, an extra tight hug, and headed toward Grand Rapids.
He wasn’t just out on bond. He was a completely free man—for now. He could still travel legally.
Pulling into the side parking lot of a Grand Rapids college, he locked the truck and strode to the library and a public computer kiosk he’d scoped out.
Five minutes later he was back on the road, with a confirmation number for the flight he’d just booked, and made it to the airport without time to spare.
In another minute or two, as soon as he slid Tom Watkins’s driver’s license through the magnetized slot at the check-in kiosk, he’d know if his problem was huge or merely big.
Tom checked in without a hitch.
Which meant that the government hadn’t turned on him. Tom’s cover was still good—at least where the Unit ed States government was concerned.
His problem wasn’t huge. It was only big.
Rick allowed himself one shot of Scotch to celebrate on the three-hour flight.
Erin hated it when she couldn’t find one of her clients. That topped her list of the many things that could go wrong in a case.
Not that Rick Thomas even had any charges against him at the moment. But he was going to. They both knew that.
So why wasn’t he answering her calls? Or, on Saturday afternoon, her knock at his door?
She thought about calling Sheriff Johnson, in case something had happened to her client and he was lying dead on the floor of his home. A home he apparently shared with no one.
The Third Secret Page 5