Guilty as Sin

by Tami Hoag

  “Unless he's nuts.”

  Wilhelm was like a puppy with a new chew toy. “And there's the connection to the van. And the kid's reaction. And—”

  “And I've got a man standing before the court tomorrow,” Ellen said sharply. “We've built a case against Garrett Wright. Mitch apprehended Garrett Wright. Agent O'Malley identified Garrett Wright. Our erstwhile witness identified Garrett Wright. What the hell are you doing to help me get Garrett Wright to trial?”

  Wilhelm pouted, looked down at his coffee. “Wright couldn't have taken the Holloman kid.”

  “We're not dealing with Holloman,” Ellen reminded him. “I'm sure you'd like to wrap all the crimes up in one neat package with one perp and move on, but that's not the way it works. We've focused on this game being played by Wright and an accomplice. Did you ever stop to think, Agent Wilhelm, that they want you to run off half-cocked after Paul Kirkwood?”

  “We have to follow all leads, Ms. North,” he said. “I've asked Mr. Stovich to get search warrants for Paul Kirkwood's home and office, and for a locker he rents at the U-Store-It on the south side of town. We'll execute the warrants tonight if we get them in time. In light of what's on that tape, I'd say we've looked the other way long enough where Paul Kirkwood is concerned.”

  Ellen couldn't argue. As much as she hated having the investigation pulled in another direction, it seemed they had no real options. Costello had leaked word of the cassette tape to the press. The police had to act on it.

  She looked to Cameron. “Will you go with them?”

  “Sure.”

  Turning to Mitch, she asked, “Did you get anywhere with Todd Childs?”

  He scowled. “Yeah, I got threatened with a lawsuit for false arrest.”

  Ellen pretended surprise. “Did Mr. Childs get the impression he was under arrest?”

  “A simple misunderstanding,” he said, straight-faced. “He calmed down after we gave him a cup of decaf.”

  “And got his prints off the cup?”

  “They're being run in St. Paul even as we speak. If we can put him at Enberg's office, that would give us a nice big lever to crack this thing open.”

  “How soon will you know?”

  “Couple of days.”

  “The hearing will be over tomorrow morning,” Cameron said. “Grabko could rule as soon as tomorrow afternoon.”

  “We need a break, gentlemen,” Ellen said. “And we need it tonight.”

  Steiger pushed himself to his feet. He had shed the adhesive tape from his nose, but the bruising remained, streaking across his hard cheekbones like war paint. “Grabko dismisses, you can always charge him again later. It's not like double jeopardy.”

  Ellen stared at the sheriff. “And if he hasn't packed up his little Saab and driven off into the sunset, we might actually get him to trial. I don't want to take that chance. I want him bound over. Tomorrow.”

  “I've got men double-checking all hot-line tips that came into Campion,” Steiger said, moving toward the door, declaring the meeting over for himself. “Don't get your hopes up.”

  Seeing his chance to escape, Wilhelm hustled after him. “A—yeah—Sheriff, I wanted to talk to you about those hot-line tips.”

  Ellen watched their defection with a mix of anger and despair. If Wright's plan had been to divide and conquer, he was scoring points tonight. The revelation of Paul Kirkwood's answering-machine tape was acting like a wedge, splitting her team even more decisively than the kidnapping of Dustin Holloman had.

  “Cameron, go offer them some suggestions,” she said with a meaningful look.

  He grabbed his coat and hustled out.

  Silence hung in the air for a moment before Ellen turned to Mitch. “Well, do you want to jump on the bandwagon of people who think I should have asked the judge for a postponement right off the bat?”

  “The Twenty-Twenty Hindsight Club?” He made a face. “Why would I join them? The membership requirements are too low. Who's on your case?”

  “Well, let's see,” she mused, tapping her chin with a forefinger. “Not counting you? Everybody. Stovich, the state attorney general, the press, half the population of Deer Lake.”

  “Pointless bullshit.”

  “That's easy for you to say.”

  “Are you forgetting the Olie Swain debacle?”

  “Sorry. No.”

  She blew out a sigh and rose with all the energy of a ninety-year-old arthritic. She stared at the time line, wishing something would jump out at her. Some heretofore overlooked minutia that would spark The Big Revelation and point to Todd Childs or Christopher Priest. Nothing. If anything, the words and lines and arrows became less coherent, a hopeless jumble of scribbling. The only name that leaped out at her was Paul Kirkwood.

  Paul had owned Olie Swain's van. Olie Swain, the convicted child molester. The van had yielded them nothing. Paul had excuses instead of alibis. They had no hard evidence against him. Paul had searched tirelessly for his son in brutal subzero temperatures. His son, who wouldn't let him get within an arm's length.

  “What do you really think about Paul?” she asked quietly.

  Mitch's face was blank as he walked along the time line, his eyes resting on every notation that mentioned Paul. “I've said it before—I think people would like for Paul to be the bad guy in all this. He's not well-known, he's not well liked. They'd rather think someone like him lost his marbles than believe a man like Garrett Wright is an evil genius.”

  “I could see people thinking that when it was Josh missing,” Ellen said. “They wanted to contain the malignancy to one family. But how does he tie in to Holloman? It doesn't make sense.”

  “Depends on how you want to spin it, counselor. Who's framing who?”

  “You're not beginning to have doubts, too, are you?”

  He ran a hand back through his hair, leaving it standing up in tufts. The exhaustion dragged on his face, pulling at the lines time and trouble had dug in. “In my gut I don't think Paul did it, but as Megan has pointed out to me more than once, I might be bringing too much of my own personal experience into it. Regardless, Wilhelm was right—we'll have to dig deeper into the possibility. I don't look forward to executing those search warrants, but it's got to be done.”

  More time spent chasing wild geese, Ellen thought, while Garrett Wright sat back and smiled, and his accomplice slipped in and out of the shadows unseen, unsuspected.

  “We need a loose thread we can pull on,” she said. “How's Megan coming with Wright's background?”

  “Nothing yet. It's slow going. If Wright's never been caught to this point, he probably hasn't left behind many bread crumbs.”

  “We can't let him get away with this, Mitch.” She stopped at the time line entry for January 22. Agent O'Malley assaulted and kidnapped. Suspect apprehended after foot chase: Garrett Wright. It was all a game to him. “That's what this is all about for him—beating the system, slipping out of the noose. He even spotted us evidence to make it interesting.”

  The idea that he might win terrified her.

  “On a related topic,” Mitch said, “I've a got a witness who may have seen your mad bomber early Sunday morning.”

  Ellen brightened. “A witness? Who?”

  “Wes Vogler. He's a trucker who lives over in that neighborhood. He was leaving for a run early Sunday morning, saw a black kid cut across the Pla-Mor parking lot. Didn't think much of it because a couple of black families have moved into the neighborhood recently. When he got back home today, heard about the explosion and the timing of it, he got suspicious, decided he should come in.”

  “You think he saw Tyrell?”

  “Maybe. Or he saw an opportunity to get some kid into trouble,” he said. “Wes's neck is a little on the red side. He's none too excited about Deer Lake becoming ‘ethnically diverse.' ”

  “Put together a photo lineup. If Vogler picks him out, we'll get Tyrell in for a live performance.”

  “If we can find him. He seems to have made himself
scarce. The Minneapolis cops are watching for him.”

  Ellen frowned as she gathered up her things. “I don't know if I should be relieved or in fear for my life.”

  “The kid's a loose cannon, but he's not stupid,” Mitch said. “After today he's got to know things are leaning Wright's way. What good would it do him to hurt you?”

  “None,” Ellen admitted. “But he might think it'd be fun, anyway.”

  Megan O'Malley's apartment was the only one on the third floor. Jay knocked and waited. On the other side of the door something fell to the floor with a thud. The curse that accompanied it was short and raw.

  “Who is it?”

  “Jay Butler Brooks, ma'am.”

  The door swung back as far as the safety chain would allow, and O'Malley glared out at him.

  “I'll cut straight to the bottom line here, Brooks,” she said shortly. “No comment. No comment. No fucking comment.”

  “I'm not a reporter.”

  “I know what you are. What do you want?”

  “To make you a proposition.”

  Her green eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  “I know you're looking into Garrett Wright's background. I'd like to help.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” she said flatly. “I'm on medical leave.”

  “Ellen North told me,” he confessed. “She also told me you'd rip my heart out of my chest with your bare hands if I betrayed the secret.”

  She stared at him for a minute, debating. “It'd be hard right now,” she said, deadpan. “I'd probably have to use a garden claw.”

  She fumbled with the chain, then swung the door open, inviting him into the apartment. Packing boxes were stacked all around the main living area that comprised both living and dining room. Soft-pink walls and white woodwork. Antique furnishings and mismatched flea-market finds. The old round oak table was piled and strewn with papers and photocopies of police reports. A black cat with a white bib and paws positioned himself in the center of it all.

  “You'll have to forgive the mess,” Megan said, hobbling to her chair and easing herself down. Her right hand, in its pristine cast, was cradled gingerly against her midsection. “Getting the shit beat out of me put me behind in my decorating schedule.”

  “Some things take precedence,” Jay remarked, sliding into the chair across from her. The cat lowered its eyelids and ears to half-mast and stared at him.

  “I hear you're doing a book.” O'Malley's expression was closed, giving away nothing, the eyes sharp with the same watchful caution he'd seen in many a cop over the years. “You should know I have a deeply ingrained aversion to opportunists.”

  “That's not why I'm here.”

  She laughed. Fine lines etched by pain dug in at the corners of her mouth. “You want in on the investigation, but it's got nothing to do with the book you'll make a few mil off? Let me save us both some time here, Mr. Brooks. I know how the world works.”

  “I have no doubt of that, Agent O'Malley. A woman doesn't get where you are in law enforcement on fresh-faced innocence.”

  “No, most of us make it this far on sex.”

  “Bullshit, ma'am,” he said with a polite smile. “I know your service record. You're damn good at your job.”

  “Yes, I am. What's that got to do with you—if you're not angling for a story?”

  “You want to nail Garrett Wright.”

  “Upside down to a cross. So?”

  “So I can help you. I've got a house full of office machines. Fax, computer with a modem, multiline phone. You're having to waste a lot of time, running things through Holt's office to maintain your cover. I eliminate the middle man. I'm your cover. I'm your legs. I'm your hands. I make a damn good living off my ability to do thorough research. I don't see how this is any different.”

  “It's different in that you're a civilian and this is a live case,” she said. “It's different in that your being in on it could bust the whole thing.”

  “Your being in on it could bust the whole thing,” he pointed out. “Costello is already making noises about conflict of interest regarding Mitch Holt. Imagine if he found out the woman hell-bent on sending his client to prison for the rest of his life was in any way still involved with the investigation. He'd take what's left of your career, cut it up into little bite-sized pieces, and wash it down with champagne.”

  “Is that a threat, Mr. Brooks?”

  “No,” he said, never taking his eyes from hers. “I'm merely pointing out that my involvement wouldn't be any more potentially dangerous than yours. Less so. After all, the machines are mine, I have no personal ties to the case. There's no law against my looking into someone's background, provided we're dealing with public record.”

  She thought on that for a moment, watching him, reading him. “Does Ellen know you're here?”

  “No. She's got problems enough tonight,” he said, wishing he could solve all those problems for her.

  “You never answered my question,” Megan said. “If this isn't about your book, then what?”

  He rose then, discomfort disguised as restless curiosity. He didn't want her looking too close, which could have been an indication of a lie, or of a truth that lived deeper than he wanted her to see. She suspected the latter. Jay Butler Brooks struck her as the kind of man who would look you straight in the face when he lied to you, his pretty blue eyes shining with sincerity. He had been a lawyer once, after all.

  “When did you see your first murdered child?” he asked, glancing at her from the corner of his eye as he leaned a hip against a stack of boxes.

  “My second week in a uniform,” she said. “A three-year-old killed by her alcoholic mother's alcoholic boyfriend.”

  “I saw mine today.”

  Dustin Holloman. He fingered the spines of some of her old textbooks, but she knew he wasn't seeing the titles. He was seeing a child's body, the same way she did whenever that three-year-old girl came to mind with sharp, grim detail, even a decade after the fact.

  “I came to Deer Lake for my own reasons, Agent O'Malley. Selfish reasons, I readily admit. I thought I could maintain some emotional distance on this case, but I stood by the side of that road this morning and listened to that boy's mama cry. . . . I don't want to be the kind of man who can keep his distance from something like that.”

  His voice had tightened, his emotion touching Megan.

  “I want to help,” he said. “I need to.” He looked up at her then with no mask, no pretense. “You know what it is to need to prove yourself, even if you're the only one looking.”

  “Yes,” Megan whispered, her gaze straying to the cast on her hand. “Yeah, I do.”

  “So what do you say? Am I in?”

  It wasn't her natural inclination to trust at all, let alone to trust a man like Brooks. But she wanted Wright behind bars; he could help speed the process. They needed a break and they needed it fast. The key had to be buried somewhere in Garrett Wright's past, but with everything else that had been thrown at them in the last week, none of the agencies involved had been able to devote the time needed to the search. She was the only one really looking, and the injuries Wright had inflicted were holding her back, slowing her down. Brooks could be her legs, her hands, another brain working to decipher the puzzle.

  Or he could be weaseling his way into a best-seller.

  Garrett Wright stood on the brink of walking away from every evil thing he'd done.

  “You're in,” she said at last. “Don't make me regret it, Mr. Brooks. I don't want to have to dig out that garden claw.”

  They began executing the search warrants at nine forty-three, beginning, at Mitch's insistence, at the Kirkwood home. He did his best to smooth the process for Hannah, glad that Father Tom was close at hand to offer her support and comfort while the officers looked for any evidence that her husband was the one who had stolen her son and put her through hell.

  As much as he loved what he did, there were times when he hated being a cop.


  He expected the search of Paul's office to be punctuated by threats of legal action from Paul, but Paul was not in his current home-away-from-home. The blankets were neatly folded on one end of the couch with the pillow placed on top of them. The desk was immaculate. There was no sign that Paul had been there at all. There was no sign that Costello's PI, York, had let himself in and helped himself to evidence at some point during the last twenty-four hours. Not surprisingly, they found nothing.

  By the time they reached the U-Store-It at the edge of the industrial park on the south side of town, it was past midnight. The night watchman, a grizzled old geezer named Davis who had bad teeth and beer breath, had to be roused from a deep, snoring sleep on the cot in the office. Grousing about the cold, he led them down the rows of storage units. Each was about the size of a one-car garage with bright-orange overhead doors and numbers stenciled on the cinder block with black spray paint. They stopped at number thirty-seven. Davis knelt down on the concrete apron, grumbling nonstop as he opened the padlock with the key from the office.

  The locker was stacked with the usual castoffs of suburban life. Out-of-season lawn furniture and an old canoe. An outdated bedroom set and boxes of old baby clothes Hannah probably hadn't been able to bring herself to part with. The thing that set Paul Kirkwood's locker apart from most Mitch had seen was the fact that it was perfectly ordered. No teetering towers of haphazardly packed junk. Everything labeled and lined up, the neatness speaking to Paul's compulsive tendencies.

  Davis declined the invitation to watch and shuffled back toward the office, lighting a cigarette. Cameron Reed stood at the door, the lone witness, hands in his coat pockets and shoulders hunched as the others went about their business. Mitch purposely avoided the more personal memorabilia and went instead to the dresser of the old bedroom set. So it was he who made the very discovery he had been praying they wouldn't find.

  Tucked back into a bottom drawer, neatly folded and stored in a black plastic garbage bag, were a pair of boy's jeans and a blue sweater.