Guilty as Sin

by Tami Hoag

  “I understand your protective attitude toward the Sci-Fi Cowboys,” she said. “But the fact remains, their very existence makes them logical suspects in the vandalism.”

  Priest regarded her with the thinnest hint of a frown touching his wide, lipless mouth. “Is it standard procedure for victims to attend police interrogations of suspects?”

  “This isn't an interrogation, Professor,” she said, “although Mitch or one of his men will need to talk with all the boys, just as they will be talking with other possible suspects. What I've come for is to request that you turn over to my office a list of names and addresses for all the Sci-Fi Cowboys past and present.”

  “For what purpose?” he asked tightly. “So the police can harass everyone who ever knew Garrett? This is an outrage!”

  “As part of the ongoing background check,” Ellen answered, rising. “We need to speak with as many people who have worked closely with Dr. Wright as we can. It's nothing extraordinary, Professor. I was surprised Agent Wilhelm hadn't already made the request.”

  “It's an invasion of privacy.”

  “No, it's not.”

  She leveled a steely look at the little man with his shrunken sweater and oversize eyeglasses and moral outrage cracking his usual emotionless facade. Two weeks ago she had thought he was a generous, compassionate man of foresight; a helpful citizen who had thrown himself into the efforts at the Josh Kirkwood volunteer center and volunteered to aid the police with his computer skills. Today she harbored suspicions that he might be protecting a criminal or worse—that he was himself a player in Garrett Wright's twisted game.

  Megan had suspected Priest. Olie Swain, the convicted pedophile who had committed suicide in jail, had audited Priest's computer courses. Their association may have gone deeper. Megan had been investigating the possibility when she was attacked—in the front yard of Priest's secluded country home. There may well have been more to that than mere coincidence. Every way Ellen turned, reality was mutating into something ugly.

  “It's called doing a thorough job,” she said. “And if it weren't for the fact that it's touching you directly, you'd be glad for it.”

  She picked up her briefcase and nodded to him. “Thank you for your time, Professor. If you could put that list together today and fax it to my office, I would appreciate it. If you choose to be stubborn, I can get a warrant, but I really don't think you want to play that game. The publicity could only hurt the Cowboys. I know you don't want that.”

  “No, I don't,” he said, blowing out a breath. His arms fell to his sides, bony shoulders slumping in defeat. He looked from Ellen to Mitch, the uncharacteristic emotions draining from his face, leaving the slate blank. “I don't want that at all. I'm sorry if I overreacted, but this program means a great deal to me. And having tried to help with the investigation into Josh's disappearance, then having this kind of scrutiny turned on me and the Cowboys . . . I don't know,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I feel a certain sense of betrayal.”

  “I understand, Professor,” Ellen said. “I think we both do.”

  The closest Mitch came to acknowledgment or apology was a twist of his mouth. As he turned toward the door, a pair of lanky teenagers stepped in.

  “Hey, it's Lady Justice!” Tyrell Mann said with a big grin splitting his face. He strutted past Ellen. “Our man Costello kicked your pretty behind yesterday, Lady Justice.”

  Ellen borrowed an attitude from Brooks. “It's only bail.”

  “Give it up, Goldie,” Tyrell sneered, leaning over her. “You haven't got a prayer.”

  She held her ground, staring him square in the face, meeting the belligerence burning in his eyes full on. “We'll see. You know what they say—it ain't over till it's over.”

  She watched for a flicker of recognition or wariness, but there was nothing. His lip curled derisively. “You ain't got shit on the Doc.”

  Mitch stepped in, planting a hand on Tyrell's chest and moving him back. “You'll show the lady respect.”

  Tyrell glared at him. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Tyrell,” Priest said, stepping between them, “this is Chief of Police Holt.”

  “A cop.” Contempt twisted Tyrell's features. “I should'a guessed.”

  The other boy stepped forward with the plastic smile of a salesman, sticking his hand out. “J.R. Andersen, Chief. Tyrell's cranky. You'll have to excuse him.”

  “No, I won't,” Mitch said flatly. “But I don't have time for this now. We'll have a little chat later today, Tyrell.”

  “The hell—”

  “We will.” He turned to Priest. “I'll set something up for this afternoon. Someone will call you.”

  Priest looked resigned and unhappy. “Can we at least do it here in my office?”

  “Do what?” Andersen asked.

  Mitch nodded and ushered Ellen out into the hall, closing the door behind them.

  “I hate to come down on them,” he said as they made their way toward the stairs. “It is a good program, but the potential for trouble is there, too. I mean, if you think about it, what's worse—below-average kids with no consciences or smart kids with no consciences? And don't try to tell me Tyrell there has a conscience lurking under all that hostility. He's a stick of dynamite with a short fuse.”

  The question was, Had Garrett Wright provided the spark that had ignited an act of violence against her? Ellen turned the possibilities over in her mind as they walked. Priest's office was located on the fourth floor of Cray Hall, a dank old mausoleum of a building, each level a maze of narrow hallways and cracker-box offices. Not even the mustard-colored walls could save the place from cheerlessness.

  “There's no denying Tyrell blames me for Garrett Wright's predicament,” Ellen said. “But the professor had a point—the Cowboys aren't the only ones in Wright's corner.”

  “We know Wright himself has an alibi for last night,” Mitch said. “After dinner he was with Costello in Costello's office until nearly ten-thirty. Then Costello drove him home.”

  “Home—to Lakeside?”

  Mitch answered her look of shock with one of sympathy. “It's part of the show, I suppose. If he's an innocent man, why shouldn't he feel free to live in his own home?”

  “Because it shows a callous disregard for the feelings of the Kirkwoods,” she said angrily. “But, hey, who cares about them? Not Tony Costello, I can guarantee you that.”

  Not only was Wright's return to his home an affront to the Kirkwoods, it completely screwed any chance they might have had to turn Karen Wright.

  “Wright isn't paying him a five-figure fee to be sensitive,” Mitch said.

  “If Wright is paying him that kind of money, I'd like to know where it's coming from. Pity we don't have just cause to seize his bank records.” She stopped on the landing, her eyes brightening as the proverbial lightbulb flashed on above her head. “But we should be able to seize his current month's records from the phone company. If we can get our hands on those, we'll be able to see if any of the strange calls that happened during Josh's abduction came from Wright's house—which, of course, they won't have because he would never be that careless—but we may be able to find out whether or not Karen Wright was the one who called in Costello. If she didn't, that strengthens my suspicion that Costello was contacted by the accomplice. If I can find a way around Costello's argument of privilege and nail his ass with charges of complicity . . . Oooh, that would be sooo sweet.”

  Mitch arched a brow as they started down the last flight of steps. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.

  “We haven't been able to locate Todd Childs,” he said. “He isn't answering his phone, doesn't appear to be home, and he isn't scheduled to work at the Pack Rat until Monday. No one seems to know where the hell he might have gone in weather like this, but no one's seen him since yesterday afternoon.”

  And since then, Dustin Holloman's boot had been discovered and someone had carved up her car.

  On the first floor they crossed anot
her empty hall and went into the foyer, where double doors flanked with sidelights afforded a view of the horrendous weather. Snow blew across the campus like bleached-white sheets torn free from a clothesline. Even through the doors the sound of the wind was an ominous roar. Small trees bent away from it like cowering stick figures. Across the street someone in a cardinal-red parka rushed along, being blown south like a scrap of bright wrapping paper.

  “Goddamn this weather,” Mitch grumbled. “I don't mind winter, but this is ridiculous.”

  “It certainly doesn't seem to be playing on our side.”

  Ellen set her briefcase at her feet and set about the task of wrapping her thick wool scarf around her head and neck. “Let me know as soon as you've talked to Childs,” she said. “We've got him on the list to testify at the omnibus hearing. We'll look like idiots if it turns out he's involved.”

  “I've got someone on it.”

  “What about the employees from the Donut Hut? Any word on what they might have seen the night Denny died?”

  “They're stuck in Mankato, but we're not sure where they're staying.” He clamped a pair of earmuffs on his head and flipped up the thick hood of his parka. “I spoke with Vicki Enberg. She says Dennis told her he wished he'd never got involved with the case, but he wouldn't say whether or not Wright had confessed anything to him. She doesn't believe he killed himself, but we have to consider the source there.”

  “Do you believe he killed himself?” Ellen asked.

  Mitch looked out at the desolate snowscape. “To tell you the truth, counselor, I don't know what the hell to believe anymore.”

  “I don't believe it's necessary, Ellen,” Rudy said, moving restlessly behind his desk. He shoved aside a stack of paperwork and rummaged through a pile of newspaper clippings—all identical, featuring a photograph of him angrily pledging to pursue justice in the case he had dumped on Ellen. “The sheriff's department is right next door.”

  “Which does no good if the trouble is in the courthouse,” Ellen insisted. “This is a highly volatile situation, Rudy, and it's getting personal. We're going to be putting in a lot of hours on this in the next few days before the pretrial. I don't want to have to fear for my life while I'm at it. I mean, my car can be repainted, but next time this jerk might decide to carve me up.”

  Scowling, he pulled a scrap of a page from under a yellow legal pad and discovered a long-forgotten grocery list. “No one can get in the building at night without a key.”

  “Big deal. So they come in during the day and hide in a broom closet until night. Or they jimmy a lock or they get in through a window. Then what?”

  He crumpled the grocery list, tossed it at the waste basket, and missed. Grumbling, he bent to retrieve it, and his eyes widened as his gaze caught on something he had discarded earlier. “Ha!” he huffed, unwadding the ball of paper.

  Ellen watched him with a mix of disgust and disbelief. “You know, I'm sorry to trouble your mind with this, Rudy, but I would prefer not to end up like Dennis Enberg.”

  “He committed suicide.”

  “I don't think so, and if you would pay attention to something other than taking Judge Franken's seat on the bench before it even has a chance to cool, you wouldn't think so either.”

  “Ellen! I don't know what you're talking about. How could you suggest such a thing? Judge Franken isn't even in the ground yet. The funeral is today. This is part of his eulogy I'm holding.”

  Meaning tomorrow, after the eulogy had been delivered in front of a crowd of court cronies and minor muck-a-mucks, and the judge was put in permanent cold storage, it would be all right to angle openly for the appointment.

  “Fine,” she said. “You're a choirboy, Rudy. Now can I have my security guard?”

  “It's not that simple. I can't just hire someone. I'll have to talk to the county commissioners.”

  “Oh, great. Maybe they'll approve the funding sometime before the year of the flood. Can't you just arrange something with Steiger?”

  “Maybe, but they've got their hands full, you know. I don't know that Russ has a man to spare.”

  Ellen blew out a breath. “All right. I can't wait to hear what the press has to say about this. Park County can't protect its children, can't even protect its own attorneys. . . . I suppose you'll want me to make a statement. Tell the press it's out of your hands. Make the usual ‘If it were up to me' noises.”

  Behind the lenses of his crooked glasses, Rudy's eyes sharpened and narrowed. “They know about your car?” he asked.

  “The phones are ringing off their hooks,” she said, poker-faced. She had yet to check her own messages, had no idea how many calls might have come in from the press. Rudy didn't seem to notice that she hadn't answered his question. The prospect of bad publicity had snagged his full attention.

  “What about these weird calls you've had? Do they know about that?”

  “We've managed to keep that quiet so far, but you know how it is. This is a small town.”

  Rudy pursed his lips and ran a broad hand over his slicked-down hair, his hand coming away from the gesture as greasy as if he had palmed a bucket of fried chicken wings. Without thinking, he used the leg of his suit for a napkin. He strolled back and forth in front of the window. Outside, the weather and the release of Garrett Wright on bail had combined to keep the protestors off the streets.

  “You think it's one of those science-fiction kids?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. It could be.”

  “Could be. But you think it is, don't you?”

  “I don't know.”

  He frowned a little, wondering what good it would do him if he did get that kind of admission from her. The program was popular and politically correct and had brought Deer Lake a lot of good publicity. Sig Iverson, whom Rudy had chosen to succeed him as county attorney, had already associated himself with Christopher Priest the past fall, acting as chaperon on a couple of Sci-Fi Cowboy trips to science fairs and competitions. If Ellen took a stand against the group and they in fact turned out to be rotten troublemakers, she would get an edge on Sig. In the meantime, if Rudy took no action and she ended up getting attacked, it would definitely reflect badly on him.

  “I'll see what I can do,” he said at last. “Twist Russ's arm a little. I'll take care of it. We don't want you getting hurt, Ellen. You know I think of the people in this office as family. I certainly don't want any harm to come to one of my office daughters.”

  Ellen forced a smile, thinking he probably would have sold his “daughter” to gypsies by now if not for the bad press. “Thanks, Rudy.”

  “Are you going to the funeral?” His attention had already returned to his eulogy notes.

  “Of course.” She didn't have the time to spare, but she felt a certain obligation, having been one of the people who had worked to revive the judge. She wondered if Brooks would feel any obligation or if he would attend in search of color commentary for his book.

  “Where are we at with the case?” Rudy asked.

  “Nothing new. We're at the mercy of the crime lab waiting for any info on evidence. The DNA testing of the bloody sheet won't be completed for another month.”

  “But it matched Josh Kirkwood for type.”

  “Yes. And since we have only to show cause, I think we're safe. Figuratively speaking, Costello would shred that sheet to rags in front of a jury, but by the time we get that far, he'll have to fight the DNA experts.”

  If we get that far.

  “We have plenty to get him bound over for trial,” she stated, as much to counteract her own insidious doubts as to convince her boss.

  She would have liked to talk through the problems with him, as she had with her old boss in Hennepin County; to strategize, theorize, play devil's advocate. But Rudy had never been a confidant. The best she could do was find a sounding board in Cameron and trust her own instincts.

  She pushed the sleeve of her blazer up with one finger and checked her watch. “I've got to get upstairs. Good luck wi
th the eulogy.”

  Ellen headed to her office, where the phones were still ringing almost without cease. Word would have spread by now about the vandalism of her car. She had officially become a target.

  Phoebe stood up from her desk, her fresh-scrubbed face bright with panic.

  “I'm sorry, Ellen,” she said, clutching her hands against the bodice of her prison-gray jumper.

  “Sorry?”

  Quentin Adler butted into the conversation from the side. “Ellen, I need to talk to you about this burglary case.”

  “In a minute, Quentin.”

  “I tried to stop him, but he frightens me,” Phoebe squeaked. “He's a Leo, you know. I can't relate to Leos.”

  “What?”

  “You know,” Quentin complained, color mottling his fleshy face. “That burglary you dumped on me—Herman Horstman. I can't find the deposition you took from his girlfriend, and now she's suddenly gone to Mexico and—”

  “Mr. Costello,” Phoebe admitted, squeezing her eyes shut as if bracing herself for a blow. “He's in your office. I'm really sorry!”

  “—and I'd like to know how a little tramp like that gets the money to fly to Cancún, but that's neither here nor there. I need that deposition, Ellen.”

  “Quentin,” Ellen said sharply. “Take a number and wait.”

  She reached around him and plucked Phoebe by a sleeve.

  “Tony Costello is in my office? Alone?”

  “I'm really sorry!” Phoebe mewed. “I tried. It's just that the phone won't stop ringing and—and—I heard you were a-a-t-t-acked a-a-and he fr-frightens me!”

  “Oh, Phoebe, don't cry!” Ellen pleaded.

  Phoebe sat back against the edge of her desk and covered her face with her hands. “I-I-I-I'm t-t-ry-y-ying!”

  “Ellen, I have to say I resent your attitude,” Quentin pouted. “You dumped this case on me—”

  Ellen wheeled on him, barely resisting the urge to grab hold of his lapels. “Quentin, I am not your mother, I am not your secretary. I gave you my files on the case. If you can't find something, deal with it. Now, please excuse me while I go eviscerate Mr. Costello.”