by Tami Hoag
In ten years her tenacity had only toughened, but her enthusiasm had tarnished badly, coated with the verdigris of cynicism. She still remembered clearly the day she had stopped herself in the hall of the Hennepin County courthouse, chilled to the bone by the realization that she had become so inured to all of it that she was beginning to grow numb to the sight of victims and corpses and perpetrators. Not a pleasant epiphany. She hadn't become a prosecutor to foster an immunity to human suffering. She hadn't stayed in the system because she wanted to reach a point where cases were little more than docket numbers and sentencing guidelines. She had become an attorney out of genetic predisposition, environmental conditioning, and a genuine desire to fight for justice.
The solution seemed to be to get away from the city, go somewhere more sane, where gangs and major crime were an aberration. A place where she could feel she was making a difference and not just trying to stick her thumb in a badly leaking dam.
Deer Lake had fit the bill perfectly. A town of fifteen thousand, it was near enough to Minneapolis to be convenient, and just far enough away for the town to maintain its rural character. Harris College provided an influx of youth and the sophistication of an academic community. A growing segment of white-collar Twin Cities commuters provided a healthy tax base. Crime, while on the increase, was generally petty. Burglaries, minor drug deals, workers from the BuckLand Cheese factory beating each other senseless after too many beers at the American Legion hall. People here were still shockable. And they had been shocked to the core by the abduction of Josh Kirkwood.
Briefcase clutched in one gloved hand, the low heels of her leather boots clicking against the hard polished floor, Ellen walked down the corridor of Deer Lake Community Hospital. Most of the activity in the hundred-bed facility seemed to center on the combination nurses' station / reception desk in the main lobby, where people with appointments were complaining about the long wait and people without appointments tried to appear sicker than they really were in hopes of getting worked in faster.
A clutch of reporters loitering at the periphery of the sick zone perked up at the sight of Ellen and scooted toward her, pencils and pads at the ready. Two women and four men, an assortment of expensive wool topcoats and scruffy ski jackets, spray-starched coifs and greased-back ponytails. A photographer angled a camera at her, and she turned her head as the flash went off.
“Ms. North, do you have any comment on the condition of Agent O'Malley?”
“Ms. North, is there any truth to the rumor Garrett Wright sexually assaulted Agent O'Malley?”
The second question drew a peeved look from Ellen. “I've heard no such rumor,” she said crisply, not even breaking stride.
The key to handling the media in full frenzy: keep moving. If you stopped, they would swarm and devour you and you would be regurgitated as a headline or a sound bite with film at ten. Ellen knew better than to allow herself to be trapped. She had learned those lessons the hard way, having been thrown to the hyenas on occasion as the sacrificial junior assistant on a case.
The lack of a juicy answer seemed only to sharpen the reporters' hunger. Two cut around to her left. Two scuttled backward in front of her. The one on her right hopped along sideways, the end of a dirty untied shoelace clacking against the floor with every stride.
“What kind of bail will the county attorney request?”
“Can you give us a rundown of the charges being filed?”
“The county attorney will be giving a press conference at the courthouse later this afternoon,” Ellen said. “I suggest you save your questions until then.”
She pushed through the hospital's front door, bracing herself automatically for the cold. A pale wash of sunlight filtered weakly down on the pristine snow. On the far side of the parking lot a tractor rumbled along, plowing the stuff into a minor mountain range.
She headed across the lot for her Bonneville, well aware that hers were not the only pair of shoes squeaking over the packed snow. Looking down from the corner of her eye, she saw the loose lace flapping alongside a battered Nike running shoe.
“I meant it,” she said, fishing her keys out of her coat pocket. “I don't have anything for you.”
“‘No comment' don't feed the bulldog.”
She cut him a glance. He had to be fresh out of high school, so wet behind the ears he shouldn't have been allowed to go out in the cold without a snowsuit. His face was finely sculpted. Black hair with a suspicious red cast swung down across his narrow brown eyes. He swept it back impatiently. Young Keanu Reeves. God spare me. Not much taller than her own five feet seven inches, he had the build of an alley cat, lean, agile, with the restless energy to match. It seemed to vibrate in the air around him as if someone had plugged him into a high-voltage generator.
“Then I'm afraid your dog will go hungry, Mr.—?”
“Slater. Adam Slater. Grand Forks Herald.”
Ellen pulled open the car door and hefted her briefcase across into the passenger's seat. “The Grand Forks paper sent their own reporter all the way down here?”
“I'm ambitious,” he proclaimed, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet as if he had to keep himself ready to bolt and run at a second's notice. Cub reporter trying to race ahead of the ravenous pack.
“Are you old enough to have a job?” Ellen asked, cranky with his enthusiasm.
“You used to be ambitious, too,” he said as she climbed behind the wheel of the car.
She looked up at him, suspicious that he might know anything at all about her.
“I have some contacts in Hennepin County.”
Contacts. He looked as if his contacts would have been the guys who stole the midterm from the algebra teacher's desk.
“They say you used to be good when you were there.” Way back when.
“I'm still good, Mr. Slater,” Ellen declared, twisting the key in the ignition. “I'm good in any zip code.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he chirped, saluting her with his reporter's notebook.
“Ma'am,” she grumbled as she put the car in gear and headed out of the lot. Her gaze strayed to the rearview mirror as she broke for traffic on the street. Mr. Ambition from Grand Forks was bouncing his way back to the hospital entrance. “See if you ever have an affair with an older woman, you little twerp. Used to be good. I haven't lost it yet.”
She wasn't entirely sure whether she meant her skills in the courtroom or her allure as a woman. As the reporter loped out of view, her gaze refocused on her reflection. Her face was more interesting than beautiful. Oval with a graceful forehead. Gray eyes—a little narrow. Nose—a little plain. Mouth—nothing to inspire erotic fantasies, but it was okay. She scrutinized for any sign of age, not liking the depth of the laugh lines that fanned out beside her eyes when she squinted. How long before she had to stop calling them laugh lines and start calling them crow's-feet?
A birthday was looming large on the horizon like a big black cloud, like the Hindenburg. Thirty-six. A shudder went down her back. She pretended it was from the cold and goosed the Bonneville's heater a notch. Thirty-six was just a number. A number closer to forty than thirty, but just a number, an arbitrary marking of the passing of time. She had more important things to worry about—like a lost boy and bringing his kidnapper to justice.
CHAPTER 2
The Park County courthouse was a small monument in native limestone with Doric columns and Greek pediments out front. It dated to the late 1800s, when labor was cheap and time of little consequence. The interior boasted soaring ceilings that most likely raised heating bills, and ornate plaster moldings and medallions that undoubtedly required endowments from historical preservationists to maintain. A restoration was under way on the third floor, scaffolding set against the northeast wall like giant Tinkertoys.
The courtrooms on the third floor were the kind of rooms that called to mind Henry Clay and Clarence Darrow. Between the judges' benches, the jury boxes, and the pews for spectators, a sizable forest of oak trees had fallen f
or the cause. The wooden floors were worn pale in spots from the pacing of generations of lawyers.
He was well familiar with courthouses like this one, though he had never been anywhere near Deer Lake, Minnesota. Nor would he ever care to venture back here once his mission was accomplished. Damned cold place.
It was a safe bet the Park County courthouse was seldom as busy as it was today. The halls were bustling, not with staff, but with reporters and cameramen and newspaper photographers jockeying for position in front of a podium bristling with microphones. He leaned over the second-floor railing and looked down through the dark lenses of a pair of mirrored military-issue sunglasses.
The kidnapping of Josh Kirkwood had garnered national attention. The arrest of Dr. Garrett Wright had only turned up the fever pitch another hundred degrees. All the major networks were represented, their correspondents instantly recognizable. The syndicated tabloid news shows were here in force, as well, their people skirting the periphery like hyenas looking to snatch a juicy tidbit from the big network lions. Forced to scramble for camera angles were the local newspeople. They had been thrown into the big pond and clearly didn't care to swim with the big fish, but there it was. The story was bigger than small-town sensibilities and small-town manners. It was as big as America and as intimate as family.
Good juxtaposition of images. He committed the line to memory.
The scene below was not unlike a movie set waiting for the arrival of the stars. Lights, cameras, grips, technicians, makeup people dabbing the shine off foreheads and noses.
“‘All the world's a stage,' ” he mumbled with cynical humor, his voice raspy from too many cigars and too little sleep the night before. The price of schmoozing. You oiled the wheels with good whiskey and smooth talk, easy smiles and expensive cigars—all to be chased the following morning with a handful of aspirin and a gallon of strong coffee.
He turned slowly for a casual glance at the reporters waiting outside the door to the county attorney's offices thirty feet down the hall. No one paid him any mind. He wore no press pass, had not been asked for any ID. He could have been anyone. He could have been a sniper; there were no metal detectors at the doors of the Park County courthouse. Another detail to file away for future reference. The case was the focus of everyone here to the exclusion of all else. Elvis could have been sweeping the floors and no one would have so much as glanced twice.
He counted this tunnel vision as being both potentially useful and a blessing to him personally. He could live without the interference as he got himself in where he wanted to be. Inside. The bird's-eye view. The catbird seat. Into the inner workings of the small-town justice system taking on a big-time case.
The door to the county attorney's offices opened and the reporters started shouting questions, sending up a racket like a pack of baying foxhounds. He straightened from the railing and propped himself up against a marble pillar, careful to remain in its shadow, his hands stuffed into the pockets of the black parka he had bought after getting off the plane in Minneapolis.
A uniformed sheriff's deputy cleared a path, leading the way for the man he recognized as Rudy Stovich. Tall, rawboned, with a face like Mr. Potato Head and kinky wire-gray hair that was slicked down into a marcel look with a quart of something greasy. Stovich had been featured in one of many news clippings about the case, scowling at the camera, piously promising to prosecute the villains to the fullest extent of the law. It would be interesting to hear what he had to say now that it appeared the villain was not some slimy ex-con from the wrong side of town and the lower end of the evolutionary ladder, but a psychology professor from their own exclusive college.
Garrett Wright was the twist that made the story unique, the hook that made it bankable instead of clichéd.
Stovich stepped into the hall, waving off the shouted questions, mugging an expression of exaggerated impatience. A woman fell into step beside him. Cool, composed, blond hair the shade of polished gold, features that were more interesting than striking. Ellen North, rumored to have her ambitious eye on the county attorney's corner office. She walked past the reporters without making eye contact, a queen oblivious to the presence of the unwashed masses. Classy, self-possessed, not rattled by the attention of the press. Intriguing.
He stayed where he was as the mob passed by and headed down the steps for the first floor. Show time.
No director could have choreographed the scene more perfectly. Just as Stovich and his entourage reached the first floor, the main doors of the courthouse swung open and State Attorney General William Glendenning and his cadre made their grand entrance. They came into the building on a gust of cold air, stamping the snow from their shoes, their cheeks and noses polished cherry-red with cold. Stovich and Glendenning shook hands as flashes went off in blinding starbursts.
Glendenning opened the proceedings. A seasoned politician, he looked good before the lights—solid, conservative, trustworthy. A pair of rimless spectacles gave him a certain resemblance to Franklin Roosevelt—more emphasis on trust and old-fashioned values. He spoke with a strong, confident voice. Platitudes and promises of justice, assurances of his trust in the system and his trust in Rudy Stovich and his staff. He sounded impressive while he actually said very little; a handy trick in an election year.
Stovich followed, stony-faced and serious, his old photo-gray glasses cockeyed, his suit looking like something he had pulled out of a laundry basket. His necktie was too short. He told everyone he was deeply troubled by the events that had rocked his community. He was just a country lawyer who had never imagined he would have to deal with a case of this nature—which was why he was passing the buck to Assistant County Attorney Ellen North. She had the kind of courtroom experience it would take. She was young and sharp and relentless in her pursuit of justice.
“Slick move, Rudy,” he mumbled, leaning once again on the railing. “Slick as snot, you old country fox.”
Dumping the case on her was calculated damage control. He painted himself as a man concerned for justice above all else, willing to admit there was someone better suited to achieve that end—and a woman, no less, scoring a point for him with the growing faction of enlightened young professionals in his constituency. At the same time, he distanced himself from the prosecution, deflected the blows of public criticism, and kept his bulbous nose clean. If Ellen North won, Rudy would look like a wise and humble genius. If she lost, it would be entirely her fault.
Whether Stovich had a genuine respect for his assistant or was in fact throwing her to the wolves was another twist with possibilities. One thing was perfectly clear as Ellen North stepped up to the podium: she wasn't afraid of the job or the press.
Her statement was brief and to the point: she intended to prosecute this case aggressively and win justice for the victims. She would do all that was in her power to try to find the answer to the ultimate question in this situation: the whereabouts of Josh Kirkwood. She refused to take questions from the press, deftly maneuvering her boss back into the spotlight. Ever grateful for a press opportunity in an election year, Stovich grabbed the chance, pulling Glendenning into the limelight with him. Photos with the head honcho of the state's justice system always made for nice campaign posters.
Ellen North snagged a deputy for protection and made her break for the stairs. He watched as several reporters broke away from the pack to pursue her. She stopped them with a look and a sharp “No comment,” never slowing her step.
“Mmm—mmm, Ms. North,” he growled under his breath as she mounted the steps, the hem of her deep-green skirt swirling around her calves. “I do believe I am in lust.”
She came down the hall, the low heels of her boots smacking sharply against the polished floor, all business and no distractions; her mind occupied by things other than the notion that someone might be watching her from the shadows.
He didn't look like the kind of man who could steal a child and plunge a community into a vortex of fear. Ellen had met Garrett Wright at a number o
f civic functions over the past two years. He had seemed pleasant enough, not the type to draw attention to himself. He would have melted into a crowd if not for the almost pretty quality of his face—a fine, alabaster oval with a slim nose and a prim mouth.
He took his seat with as much dignity as he could, considering the rattling of the hardware the police had used to accessorize the blaze-orange city-jail jumpsuit. “Ms. North,” he said with a spare smile. “I would say it's a pleasure to see you again, but considering the circumstances . . .”
He shrugged, lifting his shackled hands by way of further explanation, then settled them gently on the table-top. Smooth, pale hands with no scrapes, no contusions, no obvious signs of having struck a woman repeatedly. Ellen wondered if he had put his hands before her knowing she would look. She raised her gaze to his. His eyes were a deep, fathomless brown, large, almost drowsy looking behind lashes most women would have killed for.
“This isn't a social call, Dr. Wright,” she said crisply. “Pleasure doesn't enter into it.”
“Ms. North will be handling the prosecution,” Dennis Enberg explained. He turned to Ellen. “I hear Rudy put on a good show at the press conference.”
“I'm surprised you weren't there.”
The attorney shrugged it off. “Not my style. It was Rudy's circus. No place for a pissing contest.”
In her two-year acquaintance with Dennis Enberg, she would have said it was exactly his style to crash the county attorney's party if he thought it would do him good. She had certainly never known him to demur for the sake of manners. It struck Ellen as a tactical error. Had she been Wright's attorney, she would certainly have done her best to steal Rudy's thunder, if only to make the obvious perfunctory statement of her client's innocence.
“Denny, you know Cameron Reed,” she said, nodding to the young man sitting to her left at the fake wood-grain table.
The men half rose from their chairs to shake hands—Enberg, thirty-seven and pudgy with brown hair in serious retreat from his forehead, and Cameron Reed, twenty-eight and fit beyond reason, his hair a shock of rich copper that came with a full accompaniment of freckles. Two years out of Mitchell Law, he was sharp and eager, a true anomaly in the Park County office. How he had ended up in Park County was beyond Ellen—though that thought always brought her up short. No one would have expected her to be here, either.