by Tami Hoag
“Mr. Brooks.” A handsome smile turned Paul Kirkwood's mouth as he strode out of his office. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”
Jay closed the distance between them. “I have a regrettable habit of dropping in on people. I hope this isn't an inconvenient time.”
“No, not at all.” Kirkwood met Jay's handshake automatically, but his grip was uncertain. “Come on into my office. Would you like coffee, Mr. Brooks?”
“No thanks.” Jay said.
While Paul gave instructions for privacy to his secretary, Jay took a moment to survey the room, looking for clues about Josh's father. As in the outer office, the furnishings were oak with smooth, rounded modern lines. A framed print of wood ducks hung on one dark-green wall. Another displayed diplomas and certificates. The office was neat and tidy—compulsively so. If not for the open file on the desk, he would have thought he had walked into a display in a furniture store. The only sign of Paul Kirkwood living here was the neatly folded green-plaid blanket on the sofa.
“I read in the paper about your performing CPR on Judge Franken,” Paul said as he entered the office and closed the door behind him. He was clean-shaven, his pin-striped white shirt neatly pressed, the crease in his brown trousers sharp. “What a strange and unpleasant happening that must have been.”
“Imagine how the judge must have felt about it,” Jay said dryly. A framed photograph in the bookcase caught his eye: Josh in a too-big baseball uniform, Paul kneeling beside him with a proud and silly grin on his lean, handsome face. The image caught Jay unaware.
“Josh is quite the little athlete, huh?” he asked, nodding to the photo. “Baseball, hockey. He was at hockey the night he was abducted, right?”
“Yes. He plays wing on his Squirts team. Hannah was supposed to pick him up that night, but she got hung up at the hospital. . . .”
He spoke carefully, trying to keep the accusation out of his voice, but a hint of it remained like a phantom coffee stain that wouldn't come out of a shirt. The feeling had become dyed into the fabric of the answer.
“I'm sorry for your pain,” Jay said. “I can only imagine the toll this all has taken on you and your wife. And then to have the perpetrator turn out to be someone you knew and trusted . . . Must have been one hell of a shock.”
“You don't know the half of it,” Paul muttered.
“Let me tell you what I'm doing here, Mr. Kirkwood.”
Jay walked around behind the desk and glanced out the narrow window that overlooked the parking lot full of cars crusted in winter grime.
“What's gone on here, what's going to go on here in bringing this case to trial, has caught the interest of the nation,” he said, turning around. “A crime like this one in a small town touches a lot of nerves. If a crime like this can happen here in Deer Lake, Minnesota, then it can happen anywhere. People want to feel they have some understanding of why that is and what they might do to prevent it.”
“You want to do a book about Josh's kidnapping.”
“Possibly. Probably. It's an intriguing story. Complicated. Compelling. I imagine it will prove to be only more so as the trial unfolds.”
“And you'd like to make some kind of deal?”
Jay looked up from his examination of the items meticulously arranged on the desk. There were dollar signs in Paul Kirkwood's deep-set hazel eyes.
“Deal?” Jay said, playing dumb.
Kirkwood shrugged. “Inside Edition offered me a hundred thousand.”
And you're waiting for me to up the ante, Jay thought. He had been through it all before. Sometimes victims threw him out of their houses, outraged at the very idea of a book about their ordeal, and sometimes they wanted him to compensate them for their suffering as if he had perpetrated the crime himself for the sole purpose of setting the scene for a book. And then there were the Paul Kirkwoods of the world. Paul Kirkwood had greed oozing out of his pores like sweat. And Ellen thinks I'm the profiteer. . . .
“I don't do deals, Mr. Kirkwood. What I write is not a biography. This story will involve many people. If I grant any one of them a portion of the book, then I run the risk of having the story slanted to reflect their view of things. Contrary to what some might believe, I have ethics and I do apply them.”
“And your ‘ethics' don't include sharing the millions you'll make on a book?” Paul scowled at him, a look that was more petulance than menace. “I fail to see how you can publish a book about events in someone's life without compensating them.”
“It's like this, Mr. Kirkwood: the crime, the trial, that's all a matter of public record. If you choose to talk to me, then I may include your point of view. If you choose not to, then I'm forced to form opinions based on the testimony of others and the records of the events that have taken place. It's your call.”
“It's my life,” Paul snapped. “I deserve—”
Jay narrowed his eyes.
“Josh is my son,” he said, scrambling to cover his mistake. “He deserves something from this.”
Jay had made up his mind on that issue before he'd even climbed onto the plane to come to Minnesota. He would set up a trust for Josh, as he had for other victims whose stories he had told. A sizable chunk of the book advance and royalties would go into it. This was his standard procedure, a practice he kept absolutely out of the press, for the obvious reasons.
He chose to withhold this information from Paul Kirkwood as well. Paul had failed the test. It's my life . . . I deserve . . . Inside Edition offered me . . .
“Well, I'll tell you what, Mr. Kirkwood,” he drawled, “Josh sure as hell deserves better than what he's got.”
Letting that hang in the air, he crossed the room slowly and rested a hand on the doorknob.
“I'll leave my number with your secretary. You can think on it some and call me if you'd like—if you can find time between Hard Copy and Oprah.”
Paul watched him walk out, rage curling inside him. Bastard. He could pay lip service to ethics and the integrity of his story, but he wouldn't pay cash. He would rake in five million and still had the gall to sneer at the man whose suffering would be an integral part of what would make him that fortune.
I deserve . . . Paul refused to feel guilty for thinking it. He did deserve something. He was a victim, too.
Even as a part of him insisted on his entitlement, another part of him thought of Josh in the hospital, while another filled with images of that night two weeks ago. All of it twisted inside of him until he felt as if he were caught in a whirlpool sucking him down to drown in panic and remorse.
Josh's frantic cries of “No!” echoed in his ears. He pressed his hands over them. Even with his eyes squeezed tight against the images, he could see his son kicking against the hospital bed, felt as if each kick were landing squarely in his belly.
A thin cry slipping between his lips, he sank down in the chair behind his desk and doubled over. Shudders racked his body. His mouth twisted open; the chaos in his brain thinned to a single thought—my son, my son, my son, my son . . .
Then came the guilt. A wall of it. It was the guilt that made him open the bottom drawer of his desk. It was the guilt that had made him keep the answering-machine tape from that fateful night. He kept the tape in a microcassette recorder he had bought for dictating letters but never used.
He placed the small black rectangle on the desk, pressed the play button. And Josh's voice spoke to him from the crossroads that had turned all their lives onto a dark path.
CHAPTER 12
I'm here in Park County to see that justice will be done.”
Ellen chewed on Tony Costello's words as she drove all the way across town.
“As if the state outside the metro area is a lawless frontier,” Cameron complained. “And he's Wyatt Earp, come to bring us justice.”
“It's all part of the show,” Ellen murmured, turning onto Lakeshore Drive.
“It doesn't bother you?”
“Of course it does. Using the Holloman kidnapping in a naked grab for
publicity—it's too sleazy for words. But you can't let Tony Costello get to you any more than you let Denny Enberg or Fred Nelson get to you, Cameron. He's just another hired gun.”
“A hired gun in an Armani suit.”
“That's what success will buy you in the big city, Cam. If you're willing to pay the price.”
“I'm not interested in becoming the next Anthony Costello.”
“Glad to hear it. The world has more Tony Costellos than it needs.”
“He doesn't impress me.”
“Well, he should,” Ellen said, turning in at the Kirkwoods' drive. “He's extremely good at what he does. Don't underestimate him and don't let him get under your skin.”
She turned the Bonneville off and sat for a moment, looking at the Kirkwoods' home, a cedar-sided multilevel that fit in gracefully with its wooded surroundings. Built on the last oversize lot on the street, it had an unrestricted view of the lake to the west. On the north and east the thick woods of Quarry Hills Park wrapped the property in a feeling of seclusion that must have cost a pretty penny. On the front yard a half-finished snow fort gave testimony to the normalcy of life in this home before a kidnapper destroyed it.
Her eyes lingered on the Wrights' house two doors down.
Ellen heaved a sigh. “Okay, let's get it over with.”
Hannah answered the door, looking pale and thin. The smile she gave as she invited them in was brittle and quick.
“Hannah, this is my associate, Cameron Reed.” Ellen pulled her gloves off and stuffed them into her coat pockets.
“Yes, I believe we met last summer over a soccer injury,” Hannah said, shaking hands with Cameron.
He smiled warmly. “I recovered fully, and you were right—the scar is a definite icebreaker at the gym.” The smile faded. “I can't tell you how sorry I am for all you and your family have gone through, Dr. Garrison.”
“Thank you,” Hannah replied automatically. “Let me take your coats.”
“How's Josh doing?” Ellen asked.
The brittle smile came and went. “It's good to have him home.”
“Has he said anything? Given any indication of who took him or where they took him?”
Hannah glanced into the family room. Ellen's gaze followed, searching. Josh was nowhere to be seen.
“No,” Hannah answered at last. “He hasn't said a word about it. Come in. I've got coffee if you'd like.”
They followed her through the comfortable family room with its sturdy country-colonial furnishings and scattering of toddler's toys, and up the three steps into the spacious kitchen.
“I heard about that boy in Campion,” Hannah said as she went through the ritual of setting out mugs and pouring the coffee. “I wouldn't have wished that hell on anyone. My heart goes out to the family.”
“It's all the more incentive for us to build a strong case,” Cameron explained. “The more pressure we can bring to bear against our man, the more likely he may be willing to give us his accomplice.”
Hannah's eyes widened. Her hands were trembling as she set their coffee mugs down. “You're not going to make a deal with him? After everything he's done?”
“No,” Ellen assured. “No deals. He's going down for all of it. We're hoping Josh will be able to help us nail him. As I explained to you over the phone, Hannah, we want to have Josh take a look at what we call a photo lineup. If he picks our man out of that, we'll want to proceed with an actual lineup at the police station. We felt it would be less traumatic for him to start with the photographs. We don't want to upset Josh, but his ability to identify his abductor would certainly be key to our prosecution.”
“Will he have to testify in court?”
“That will depend on how much he remembers or is willing to tell,” Cameron said.
“If Josh is able to testify, we'll do everything we can to prepare him so he won't be frightened,” Ellen explained.
Hannah reached up to toy nervously with an earring. “Couldn't he testify on videotape? I've seen that on television.”
“Possibly,” Ellen said. “There is precedent. I'll talk with the judge when the time comes, but for now all we want is to have Josh look at photographs. Could you bring him in?”
As Hannah left the kitchen, Cameron opened his briefcase, pulled out a sheet of plastic pockets from a photo album, and placed it on the table.
“She's not holding up well,” he murmured.
“I'm sure we can't even imagine what it's been like,” Ellen said, keeping an eye peeled for Hannah's return. “I heard their marriage is all but over.”
“Garrett Wright has a lot to answer for.”
Hannah herded Josh into the kitchen. Josh eyed them warily. He seemed like an impostor of the boy in the “missing” posters, with his gap-toothed smile and Cub Scout uniform. The physical resemblance to that boy was there, but none of the sparkle, none of the joy. His eyes looked a hundred years old.
“Hi, Josh, my name is Ellen.” She leaned down to eye level with him. “And this is my friend, Cameron. He likes to play soccer in the summer. Do you go out for soccer?”
Josh stared at her, silent. His mother ruffled his curly hair. “Josh plays baseball in the summer. Don't you, honey?”
He looked from Ellen to Cameron, then turned and faced the refrigerator, losing himself in the photographs and school artwork stuck to it with magnets. Hannah knelt down beside him.
“Josh, Ellen and Cameron want you to take a look at some pictures they brought with them. They want to see if the man who took you away from us is one of the men in the photographs. Can you do that?”
He gave no answer, no reaction of any kind. She turned him gently by the shoulders toward the table.
“Just take a look at these, Josh,” Ellen instructed, sliding the sheet of photos toward him. “Take your time and look at all the men. If you see the man who took you, all you have to do is point at him.”
Ellen held her breath as he bent his head over the pictures, looking at one face, then another. All were mug shots, some of criminals, some of Deer Lake police officers. Garrett Wright's occupied the upper right-hand pocket. Josh looked at them all, his gaze lingering on Wright's face, then moving on.
“All you have to do is point at him, Josh,” Ellen murmured. “He's not going to hurt you. We'll make sure he'll never hurt you or any other kids ever again.”
His gaze slowly skated back up across the faces; then he turned away and went to the refrigerator to stare at a construction-paper snowman.
“Josh, are you sure you didn't see the man?” Hannah asked, a desperate edge to her voice. “Maybe you should come back and look again. Come on—”
Ellen rose and gently caught hold of her arm before she could drag Josh back to the table.
“It's okay, Hannah. Maybe he just isn't ready to look yet. We'll try it again another day.”
“But—” Hannah's gaze darted from her son to the mug shot of Wright.
“It's all right,” Ellen said, wishing she felt as nonchalant as she sounded. “When he's ready, he'll talk about it. He's just not ready yet.”
“What if he's never ready?” she whispered.
“We'll make the case,” Ellen promised. But as they drove away from the Kirkwood house, she wondered if it was a promise she would be able to keep.
Josh was the only witness who could identify Wright and his accomplice. Josh had seen the person who'd picked him up at the hockey rink. The witness, Helen Black, had glanced out her window that night and seen a boy who could only have been Josh willingly climbing into a van. He had to have seen who was driving it.
“Maybe the accomplice picked him up,” Cameron offered. “Maybe he never saw Wright.”
“Maybe.”
He was silent for half a block as they drove past a Kwik Trip and a Vietnamese grocery. “And if we don't have Josh take the stand, Costello will say he couldn't identify Wright because Wright didn't do it.”
“Then we jump all over Costello for being a heartless bastard,” El
len countered. “We say we're not putting Josh on the stand, because he's been traumatized and victimized enough. We don't want to put him through the ordeal of cross-examination, to say nothing of having to face Wright in the courtroom.”
He nodded as they turned onto Oslo and headed up the hill toward the courthouse. They passed the knot of protestors on the sidewalk and turned in at the entrance to the sheriff's-department lot, swinging around behind the building.
“Poor kid,” Cameron said. “It's up to us to get him some justice.”
Ellen found a ghost of a smile for him as she palmed her keys. “That's why they pay us the big bucks, Mr. Reed.”
“Judge Rudy Stovich.” Rudy spoke the title aloud to test the sound of it. Sounded good.
He had occupied this corner office on the second floor of the Park County courthouse for a dozen years. The oak credenza was piled with file folders and law books he never consulted. His desk was awash with debris, the decorative scales of justice that sat on one corner tipped heavily with golf tees. A set of Ping clubs leaned into one dark corner of the room, resting up for the annual February trip to Phoenix. A trip he would gladly postpone in order to move himself into old Franken's chambers.
“Judge Rudy Stovich,” Manley Vanloon echoed. He plucked a filbert from the nut dish on the desk and cracked it with a tool disguised to look like an angry mallard. Fine slivers of shell rained down like flecks of tobacco onto the front of his tan wool sweater. He was built like a Buddha, all belly and a round, smiling face. His eyebrows tilted up above his tiny eyes. “Maybe you should go by Rudolph. Sounds more dignified.”
Rudy swiveled his chair back and forth as if the motion would act as a centrifuge and separate the good decisions from the bad. “Sounds pretentious. Folks like my country-lawyer image.”
“Good point.” Manley nibbled his filbert, his gaze speculative as he imagined his pal in judge's robes. He and Rudy had been buddies since snow was cold, backing each other in business ventures and political campaigns. “How long before the governor makes up his mind?”