Ties That Bind aj-2

by Phillip Margolin

  "But you'll finish someday anyway and I'll be sad."

  "But you'll be sadder later."

  "And they won't disappear, because you can read it to me again."

  Kerrigan kissed Megan's nose. "You are too smart, young lady."

  Megan smiled and followed up her advantage. "One more chapter. Please."

  Kerrigan was about to give in when Cindy walked into Megan's bedroom.

  "It's Richard Curtis," she said. Richard Curtis was Tim's direct supervisor. Cindy looked put out, which was the way she always looked whenever his office called him at home.

  "I'll take it in the study."

  He turned back to Megan. "Sorry, Buttercup."

  Kerrigan kissed Megan, gave her a hug, and said good night. Then he went into his den.

  "What's up, Dick?"

  "I hate to do this to you but I just received a call from Sean McCarthy. He's at a crime scene and I want you to cover it."

  "Can't you find someone else?"

  "Not for this one. It's Harold Travis."

  "You're kidding! What happened?"

  "He was beaten to death."

  Tim closed his eyes. He remembered saying good-bye to Travis at the Westmont.

  "I can't, Dick, I knew him."

  "Everyone knew him."

  "I played golf with him this weekend. Can't you send Hammond or Penzler? They'd give their right arms to see their name in the paper."

  "Look, Tim, the death of a United States senator is going to be covered by the national media. You know how to deal with them. I need someone out there who won't grandstand if someone from 20/20 shoves a microphone in his face."

  Kerrigan was quiet for a moment. Harold Travis. How could he be dead? He didn't want to see someone he knew dead.

  "Tim?"

  "Give me a minute."

  "I need you on this."

  Kerrigan sucked in some air. He felt light-headed. Then he closed his eyes and let out a breath.

  "I'll do it."

  Portland turns from city to country in the blink of an eye. Fifteen minutes from Kerrigan's house, the streetlights began to disappear; the only light was from a quarter moon. The prosecutor was afraid that he would miss the crime scene, but a police car had been stationed near the turnoff to keep out everyone without official business. He flashed his ID and turned onto a narrow, unpaved driveway.

  Tim's car bumped along for an eighth of a mile. He had played blaring rock music as he drove out of town so he wouldn't have to think about where he was going and what he was going to see, but he turned off the radio when he spotted flashes of electric light through the trees. Then the dirt track turned and the prosecutor saw an assortment of official vehicles parked in front of a tiny A-frame house. It looked like every light in the cabin was on, and the light leaked across the lawn, bleeding out just beyond Kerrigan's car.

  The A-frame was so small that only an unmarried person or a childless couple would tolerate it. Tim stood in the dark for a few minutes, fully aware that he was putting off the inevitable, before walking across the lawn. As he approached the house, he felt a little sick and disoriented, like a family member entering a funeral parlor.

  The front door opened onto a stone entryway. In front of Kerrigan was an island with two high stools that separated the entryway from a narrow kitchen. To the left was a living room crowded with police officers and forensic experts, one of whom was talking to Sean McCarthy. The homicide detective had the alabaster skin of someone who never saw the sun; his red hair was streaked with gray. Tim had worked with McCarthy on several homicides and could not remember a time when the rail-thin detective did not look tired. McCarthy spotted Kerrigan and motioned him to wait while he finished up.

  Tim stood beside a half-wall that separated the living room from the kitchen and stopped where the stone entryway met the living-room carpet. A flash from a camera attracted his attention to a loft that overhung the living room. Kerrigan had noticed the underside of the polished wood stairs that led up to the loft when he looked through the kitchen. He guessed that the bedroom must be up there where the roof narrowed. When he looked down, he saw a trail of smeared blood leading from the stairs through the kitchen and across the living-room carpet. Someone had run tape on either side so no one would step on the tracks. The end of the blood trail was hidden behind a cluster of people at the far side of the living room.

  "I know you're not big on gore, so be prepared," McCarthy told Kerrigan when he ambled over. "This one is not pleasant."

  Tim's stomach rolled.

  "You up for this?" McCarthy asked, worried by the prosecutor's ashen pallor.

  "Yeah. I'll be okay."

  A photographer stood between Kerrigan and the body. He finished snapping stills of Travis and the surrounding area and stepped aside. Kerrigan squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them slowly to control the view. The senator was sprawled across the floor like a rag doll. His legs and arms were flung about at weird angles, and his head lolled on the carpet in an unnatural position. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but no shoes or socks. His feet were a bloody mess. Someone had smashed every toe as well as the feet themselves. Travis's shins and kneecaps had also been smashed. Kerrigan guessed that Travis's killer had worked his way up the senator's body, ending at his head, where the senator's forehead, nose, mouth, and chin had been battered to pulp.

  Kerrigan really wanted to be out of this room. McCarthy saw him sway and led him outside. The prosecutor walked behind the house to a bluff that dropped off into darkness. A chill wind blew up the ravine. Kerrigan concentrated on a solitary object lit by a string of lights moving slowly along a black ribbon that divided the valley, a tanker heading inland on the Columbia River to the Port of Portland.

  "Has anyone notified Harold's wife?" Tim asked as soon as he was breathing normally.

  "She's flying back from a medical convention in Seattle."

  "This is fucking terrible," said Kerrigan.

  McCarthy knew the DA did not expect a response.

  "Have we found the murder weapon?"

  "No, but I'm thinking a baseball bat or something like it."

  "He looked like . . ." Kerrigan shook his head and didn't finish the thought.

  "Dick called while you were driving over. He said you knew him."

  "Yeah. I played golf with him this weekend."

  "Can you think of anyone who'd hate him enough to do this?"

  "I didn't know him that well. You should call Carl Rittenhouse. He's his AA. He might be able to help."

  "Do you have a number?"

  "No, but Judge Grant knows Rittenhouse. Hell, he knew Harold real well, too. Travis was his clerk during the summer before his last year of law school."

  A man in a dark blue windbreaker walked up to McCarthy and Kerrigan and threw a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the front of the house.

  "We've got a visitor from an organization headquartered in Washington, D.C.," said Alex DeVore, McCarthy's partner.

  "I was wondering how long it would take for the G-men to put in an appearance. Is it anyone we know?"

  "His name is J. D. Hunter and I've never seen him before."

  "Tim?" McCarthy asked.

  The prosecutor shook his head.

  "Let's go meet our guest."

  McCarthy led the way back to the entry hall where an athletically built man was studying the activity in the living room.

  "Agent Hunter?"

  The man turned. Horn-rimmed glasses perched on Hunter's small, broad nose, and his skin was deep black. McCarthy introduced himself and the senior deputy DA.

  "You're not local, are you?" Tim asked.

  "With the victim being a senator, Washington wanted an agent from headquarters on the case." He shrugged. "Politics. Anyway, I'd appreciate it if you'd fill me in."

  "Sure," McCarthy said, "but we don't know very much yet. There's a service that cleans the house. They were told to come out late afternoon. One of the women found the body around five and cal
led 911."

  "Is this where the senator lived?" Hunter asked.

  "No," Tim answered. "He's got a home in Dunthorpe."

  "Then who owns this place?"

  "We're not certain. A realty company deals with the cleaning service. They're closed, so we won't be able to find the name of the owner until the morning."

  "Isn't there anything in the house that would let you know?" Hunter persisted.

  McCarthy shook his head. "Forensics might give us a clue when they finish analyzing the prints, blood, etc. But the drawers in the bedroom are empty and there were no bills or notes on the kitchen bulletin board. We did find liquor and cocaine in a cabinet in the living room . . . ."

  "Cocaine!" Kerrigan said.

  "We dusted the baggie, so we'll know who handled it pretty soon."

  "I hope to God it wasn't Harold," Kerrigan murmured to himself.

  "Was there anything else?" Hunter asked.

  "Yeah. Travis's body was found in the living room, but there's a blood trail leading downstairs from the sleeping loft. We think the killer started on him up there and chased him downstairs. One of the techs found an earring under the bed. It's a gold cross. Travis doesn't wear an earring. We're hoping that the killer does."

  "That would be a break," Hunter said.

  "The easier the better, I always say," DeVore answered with a smile.

  "I'd like to take a look at the body, if that's okay," Hunter told McCarthy.

  "Sure thing."

  As he watched the FBI agent cross the living room, Kerrigan realized that something beyond the obvious was bothering him, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was.

  Cindy was waiting for Tim when he returned home.

  "I heard the car," she said and held out a glass of scotch. The ice clinked against the side of the glass, sounding like little bells. "I thought you could use this."

  Tim took the glass, grateful for the kindness.

  "Was it bad?"

  "I've never known a victim before. The whole scene was surreal. We just played golf," he said, a sentence he'd been repeating all evening as if it was impossible for someone to die if you'd seen him only a few days before.

  Tim downed his drink and set down his glass.

  "Does Deborah know?" Cindy asked.

  "She was in Seattle. She's flying back."

  "It has to be awful for her. I can't imagine."

  "I'll have to talk to her tomorrow," he said. "I'm not looking forward to that."

  Cindy hesitated, then wrapped her arms around him. He resisted for a moment, then held her. Cindy rested her head against his chest. She'd showered while he was gone, and her hair smelled like fresh flowers. Cindy looked up. Her eyes and the soft pressure when she took his hand asked him if he wanted to go to bed. It had been so long. Cindy tensed, preparing for rejection. Tim knew how devastating it would be if he refused. Then he realized that he did not want to refuse, that he needed to be comforted and held. He kissed Cindy's forehead. He felt her relax, kissed her again, and felt something stirring. Cindy squeezed his hand and led him toward the bedroom.

  Chapter Ten.

  Dunthorpe was an exclusive residential neighborhood where substantial homes sat back from the road on large, tree-shaded lots, and the peace was rarely disturbed. But the morning after Harold Travis's murder, Sean McCarthy had to drive at a crawl to get past the television vans, the reporters, and the gawkers who crowded the narrow street that ran in front of the senator's house, a Tudor mansion shielded from view by a high hedge.

  McCarthy flashed his ID at the policeman who was manning the barricade at the end of the driveway. The cop pulled back the sawhorse and waved McCarthy and Tim Kerrigan through. A maid answered the doorbell, and Kerrigan and the detective walked into a wood-paneled entry hall in which a crystal chandelier hung over a polished hardwood floor and the Persian carpet that covered most of it.

  Carl Rittenhouse rushed over and grasped Tim's hand as soon as the prosecutor stepped through the front door. Rittenhouse had a doughy build and thinning gray hair that looked as if it had been combed in haste. His eyes were wide behind tortoiseshell glasses.

  "This is fucking awful, Tim. Fucking awful."

  "How is Deborah?"

  "Holding up a hell of a lot better than I am. She's in there." Rittenhouse gestured toward the living room. "She's tough, keeping it in. I'm afraid she'll crash as soon as everyone leaves and she doesn't have to put up a brave front."

  Kerrigan introduced McCarthy to the harried AA. "Look, Carl, before we talk to Deborah there are a few things we've got to ask you. Stuff we don't want to discuss in front of her. Is there somewhere we can talk?"

  Rittenhouse led the way down a narrow hall decorated with delicate pen-and-ink sketches of Parisian boulevards, and into a den. Two walls were lined with bookshelves. A window took up most of the wall across from the door. Outside, the sky was gray and threatening.

  "Do you have any idea who killed him?" Tim asked.

  "No."

  "He was going to be the nominee for president. You don't climb that high without making some enemies."

  "Well sure, but I can't think of anyone who hated him enough to beat him to death."

  "What about the house where Harold was killed?" McCarthy asked. "Who owned it?"

  Rittenhouse colored.

  "If you know anything you've got to tell me."

  "It was the senator's place. I'm not certain Deborah knows."

  "Why wouldn't she?" Tim asked.

  Rittenhouse looked like he was in pain. "Come on, Tim. Do I have to spell it out for you? Harold fooled around."

  "Do you know why he was there last night?" McCarthy asked.

  "I might. Harold had an argument with a man in the parking lot at the Westmont after he played golf."

  Rittenhouse told them about the incident.

  "Did you recognize the man who was arguing with Harold?" McCarthy asked when he finished.

  "No, but I saw him clearly. I'd know him if I saw him again."

  "Great," Tim said.

  "And I wrote down the license number of his car."

  Rittenhouse took out his wallet and showed them what he'd written on the back of one of his business cards.

  "What does the argument at the Westmont have to do with Harold being at the cabin?" Kerrigan asked while McCarthy used the phone on Travis's desk to call in the plate.

  "A few of us met Harold here last night to plan campaign strategy. We've been doing that a lot since Whipple dropped out. We were all excited because the senator had a real shot at . . ."

  Rittenhouse stopped. "Damn." He bit his lip in an effort to fight back tears.

  "You want some water?"

  Rittenhouse shook his head. "I'll be okay."

  Rittenhouse paused until he had his emotions under control. "The meeting broke up around eight-thirty because Harold said he had a headache. He told me to cancel his plans for the morning. He said he felt run-down and wanted some time to himself. After Harold kicked everyone out, I asked him about the guy at the club again, because I'd been worrying about him. Harold had an odd reaction. He acted excited, like he wasn't worried at all, and told me to forget about it. He said 'Jon' was going to make it up to him that night. He looked like he'd forgotten that he was supposed to have a headache."

  "Do you think the headache was a sham to get rid of everybody?"

  "The thought crossed my mind."

  "And you think he might have met the guy he argued with later on?"

  "All I know is what I told you."

  Kerrigan was about to ask another question when McCarthy interrupted. "The plate came back to Jon Dupre, 10346 Hawthorne Terrace, Portland."

  Kerrigan could not conceal his surprise. "Describe the man who argued with the senator again."

  "He was young, mid- to late twenties, good-looking."

  "How tall was he?"

  "Taller than Harold, maybe six feet."

  "And his hair?"

  "Uh, brown, I think." />
  "Any jewelry?"

  Rittenhouse frowned. Then he brightened. "I think he had an earring."

  "Can you describe it?" Kerrigan asked, fighting hard to mask his excitement.

  "Uh, I think, yeah, it was a cross. A gold cross."