Ties That Bind aj-2

by Phillip Margolin

  The last time they had met in this motel room, Jasmine had asked him what he wanted her to do to him and he had told her that he wanted to be punished. It would have been more accurate to tell her that he needed to be punished, that he deserved to be punished.

  Kerrigan closed his eyes and let his head fall back. He was a prosecutor. His job was to make certain that criminals suffered the consequences of their acts, but he had escaped the consequences for his worst act for so long that he'd deluded himself into believing that he would escape punishment forever.

  * * *

  The weeks before the Rose Bowl had been a blur. The press was everywhere and the practices had been intense; and compounding the confusion were the discussions of his wedding to Cindy. It was almost impossible to find a place where he could be alone and think. Too many people wanted a piece of him, and Cindy wanted to be with him every second of the day. Tim was sharing a house with Hugh Curtin and two other players that was a nonstop party.

  On a wet and cold Thursday, a week and a half before the big game, Tim had escaped to a dark booth in a workingman's bar off the interstate. The tavern was only three miles from campus but it catered to hard drinkers and had none of the ambience that attracted a college crowd. It was a place where the Pac-10s star running back could drink without being noticed.

  By two in the morning, empty shot glasses were lined up in front of Tim on the scarred wood table. He'd made a solid dent in his sobriety, but he was no closer to solving his personal problems. Cindy was expecting him to marry her, but did he want to get married? He was young and he had his life ahead of him. How did he know that Cindy was The One? One thing he knew for certain-- Cindy would be crushed if he broke off their engagement. But wouldn't a momentary tragedy be better than a lifelong one?

  It was well past the curfew set by the Oregon coach. If he was caught here, drunk or sober, Coach could suspend him. Tim looked around. The bar was emptying out and he still had not decided what he was going to do. Fresh air might help.

  Tim pushed himself to his feet and headed for the door. A gust of wind blew cold darts of rain into his face. Tim's car was in the lot but he knew better than to drive. He'd have Huge drive him over tomorrow morning. The walk back would give him time to think and sober up.

  Tim had no idea how long he'd been walking when a car slowed down and paced alongside him. It was new and expensive, a rich kid's car-- the kind the sons and daughters of the Westmont Country Club crowd drove. The passenger window rolled down.

  "Tim. Hey."

  It was a girl's voice. He stumbled over and ducked down so he could see the driver. She was alone.

  "It's me. Melissa Stebbins."

  Tim placed her immediately. She was one of Cindy's sorority sisters. Melissa had a reputation for doing drugs, drinking, and sleeping around.

  "Get in," Melissa said.

  Tim thought about refusing, but the rain had sobered him up enough to make him feel miserable walking in it. The dome light switched on when Tim opened the door. It had given Melissa a chance to see his pale face and bloodshot eyes. It had also allowed Tim to notice Melissa's breasts outlined beneath a tight sweater. He had the beginnings of a hard-on by the time he sat down.

  "What are you doing out?" Melissa asked. "Don't you jocks have a curfew?"

  "I had something to do. Coach said it was okay."

  Melissa could smell the booze from across the car, and Tim looked like shit.

  "Right," she laughed. She saw the concern on Tim's face. "Don't worry. I won't turn you in."

  The car swerved and almost went off the road.

  "Whoops," Melissa laughed as she brought the car back to the pavement. Tim realized that he wasn't the only drunk in the car and that they were heading away from his house.

  "I'm over on Kirby," Tim said.

  "Fuck Kirby," Melissa laughed.

  "Are you okay? You want me to drive?"

  Melissa didn't answer. She turned into the park and headed for the heavily forested section known since the advent of the car as Lovers' Lane. Melissa smiled at Tim. There was no doubt what had prompted her look. If he'd been sober he would have been scared, but the booze had mashed down his inhibitions.

  Sometime between parking and their first kiss, Melissa slipped her hand into Tim's lap and began stroking his penis through his jeans. When she broke the kiss, Tim noticed that her eyes were glassy, but he didn't notice much else.

  "Want one?"

  Melissa was holding out a handful of pills. Even as wasted as he was, Tim knew better than to mess with pharmaceuticals. He shook his head. Melissa shrugged. She shoved the pills into her mouth and washed them down with something from a bottle Tim hadn't seen before. The hand returned to Tim's lap. Melissa pulled down his zipper and unbuckled his pants. He was conscious of the rain pelting against the roof of the car. For a second, Tim thought about Cindy. Then Melissa's mouth was on him and he wasn't thinking about anything. His eyes closed and his buttocks tightened. He was about to come when Melissa pulled away roughly.

  Tim's eyes snapped open. Melissa's eyes rolled back in her head. A moment later, she was thrashing against the driver's-side door. Tim pressed backward, stunned and too terrified to think. Melissa was flailing. He knew that he had to do something, but he had no idea what. Suddenly, she collapsed, convulsed again, and stopped moving.

  "Oh, my God. Melissa! Melissa!"

  Tim forced himself to lean toward Melissa and touch her neck, checking for a pulse. Her flesh felt clammy and he pulled back. Had there been a pulse? He wasn't certain. He just wanted to get out of the car.

  The rain was still falling. He zipped up his pants. What should he do? Call someone, he guessed, an ambulance, the cops. But what would happen to him if he did? He was drunk, breaking curfew, an engaged man getting a blow job from a girl high on God knew what. Would the cops think he'd given her the drugs?

  Better get out of here, he told himself. Tim ran. Then he stopped. He had to make a call. If he left her and she died . . . He didn't want to think about that.

  Another thought occurred to Tim-- fingerprints. He'd seen cop shows. They'd dust the car, wouldn't they? Where had he touched it? After that night, every time he was tempted to rationalize what he'd done, Tim would remember wiping the door handles and the dashboard.

  The rain was starting to let up when he sprinted out of the park. He was two miles from home. There were houses across the street but they were all dark. He should pound on a door and tell them about Melissa. He could make up a story, say he was . . . what? Walking through the woods in the rain at three in the morning, drunk. And they'd know him. He was famous. If the cops told Coach what he'd been doing-- that he was intoxicated-- Coach would kick him off the team. He'd have no choice.

  Tim kept running. There was a twenty-four-hour convenience store a few blocks from his house. He detoured past it and checked the lot for cars. A guy was inside, getting cigarettes. Tim waited until he left, then jogged to the pay phone and called the police anonymously, hanging up as soon as he was certain that the cops knew where to look for Melissa.

  Tim's house was dark and quiet. He let himself in and stripped off his clothes in his room. Melissa was probably okay, he told himself. Yeah, she'd probably just passed out. She'd been wasted. That was it. She was okay.

  Tim went to bed, but he didn't sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Melissa pressed against the car door, her eyes rolled back, drool clinging to her lower lip. When he sobered up, he cried, but he wasn't sure if he was crying for Melissa or himself.

  The next day at practice Tim learned that Melissa was dead. The paper said something about a preexisting heart condition and drugs and booze. There was no mention of a passenger. Tim wondered if Melissa would have survived if he had called for help as soon as he left the park. Was she dying while he was running for his life? Would a doctor have saved her?

  Worst of all, he had spent time wiping away his prints to protect himself. Had those few moments meant the difference between Mel
issa living or dying? If he'd stayed with her until the ambulance arrived, would Melissa Stebbins have survived?

  Tim waited for the police to come for him all week long. Some of the time, he longed for the knock on the door and the chance to confess and unburden himself of his guilt, but it never came. So much for justice. Instead of going to jail, Tim won the big game and was awarded a trophy declaring him to be the greatest college player in the United States of America. He was hailed as a hero. Tim knew better.

  Chapter Thirty.

  Billie Brewster waved to Kate Ross across the dining room of Junior's Cafe, where you could get coffee, strong and black, but no lattes; and apple pie a la mode, but never ever a tiramisu. Brewster was a slender black woman with close-cropped hair who worked Homicide. She and Kate had been friends when Kate was with the Portland Police Bureau and they had reestablished their friendship during the Daniel Ames case. Kate paused at the counter to give Junior her order before joining Billie.

  "How have you been?" Kate asked as she slid into the booth.

  "I've been better. The Parole Board passed on my brother this morning."

  "Did you go down there for the hearing?"

  "No. I get too bummed out."

  "I'm so sorry."

  Billie had been forced to raise her younger brother from the time she was sixteen, the year her father deserted the family and her mother started to work two jobs just to get by. Billie blamed herself for her brother's failings. He was locked up at the Oregon State penitentiary for committing an armed robbery.

  "When does he come up again?" Kate asked.

  "It doesn't matter. This is his third fall and he's not getting out soon." Billie took a sip of her coffee. "Maybe it's for the best. Every time he's on the outside he messes up."

  Billie shook her head. "Enough of this negative shit. What's behind the mysterious phone call?"

  "Sorry I couldn't be more specific. I'm really just fishing around."

  "Fish all you want, girl, as long as you're paying for my pie and coffee."

  "You know Amanda is representing Jon Dupre?"

  "Who doesn't?"

  "Do you know what happened at the bail hearing?"

  Billie threw her head back and laughed. "I sure do. That girl's got balls. Self-defense!"

  "I'm glad we're able to bring some joy to your life."

  Billie laughed again. "You aren't serious about this, are you Kate? You're the brain who went to CalTech. Don't tell me you went on a football scholarship?"

  Kate said nothing. Billie stared for a moment. "You are serious."

  "I know it's far-fetched but we have some evidence to back up Dupre's claim."

  "That I'd like to see."

  "When we're ready. But enough of your questions." Kate pointed at Billie's pie and coffee. "I'm paying this exorbitant bribe to pump you for information."

  "Go for it."

  "Have you ever heard that Wendell Hayes was dirty?"

  Billie savored a piece of pie while she thought.

  "If you're asking whether we have an investigation going, as far as I know, we don't. Of course, there are always suspicions when a lawyer represents drug dealers, and Wendell represented Pedro Aragon's people. You must have heard rumbles while you were working Narcotics."

  "I wasn't in long enough," Kate answered, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. The Portland Police Bureau had recruited her out of CalTech, where she'd majored in computer science, to investigate computer crime, but Kate had gotten bored and asked for a transfer to Vice and Narcotics. While working undercover, she had been involved in a shootout at a mall that had left civilians and a key informant dead. Kate had been the department's scapegoat and had been driven off the force.

  "The only other thing I can think of falls under the heading of an urban legend."

  "Spill."

  "Have you ever heard of The Vaughn Street Glee Club?"

  "No."

  "About seven years ago, while I was still in uniform, I was the first officer on the scene when Michael Israel, a prominent banker, committed suicide. It was classic. He shot himself in the head in his study and he left a note confessing to the murder of Pamela Hutchinson, a young woman he said he'd gotten pregnant."

  "Was there a murder that matched up?"

  "Yeah. Eight years earlier. Hutchinson worked as a teller at Israel's bank and she was pregnant. After Israel's suicide we ran a ballistics check on the gun that Israel used on himself. It was the same weapon that was used to kill Hutchinson

  "Was Israel ever a suspect in Hutchinson's death?"

  "Never. He was questioned at the time, but it was routine. We talked to everyone at the bank. Besides, there was no reason to suspect Israel. He was married, a member of a prominent Portland family. Hutchinson was found in a parking lot miles from the bank. She'd been beaten and shot. Her purse was missing. Everyone thought that she was killed during a robbery."

  "How was Hayes involved?"

  "Don't be impatient," Billie said as she took another mouthful of pie. "The year I made detective, the DEA arrested Sammy Cortez, a Mexican national who worked for Pedro Aragon. The feds had Cortez cold for a major drug conspiracy rap that carried a life sentence without parole. Cortez was talking a blue streak in hopes of cutting a deal, and one of the things he claimed he could clear up was the murder of a banker in Portland a few years before."

  "Israel?"

  Billie nodded. "He said that there was a conspiracy of well-connected, wealthy men who had ordered Israel's death and wanted it to look like a suicide. Cortez said that these men and Aragon went way back."

  "Did he say that Hayes was involved?"

  "He never mentioned any names, wouldn't say anything else without a deal, except for one thing. He said these men had been together so long that they even had a nickname for the group--The Vaughn Street Glee Club."

  Kate looked skeptical. "What did Aragon ever have to do with a glee club?"

  "Beats me, and Cortez couldn't explain the name either. He said it was an inside joke. Anyway, DEA thought Cortez was full of shit about the glee club thing but they notified us anyway. I went over to the federal lockup to talk to him because I knew about the Israel case. When I got there I learned that a lawyer had just spent half an hour with Cortez. When they brought Cortez into the visiting room he looked scared to death and he wouldn't say another word about anything. Want to guess who the lawyer was?"

  "Wendell Hayes?"

  Brewster nodded. "Now, I knew a little about Cortez from another case. He was a genuine tough guy, but he was also a strong family man. On a hunch I checked on his wife and their eight-year-old daughter. The daughter hadn't gone to school the day before Hayes visited or the day of his visit, but she went back the day after Cortez stopped cooperating. I tried to talk to the daughter, but the mother wouldn't let me near her."

  "You think she was snatched to shut him up about this club?"

  "Maybe, or maybe the talk about the club was bullshit. Cortez could have told the feds a lot about Aragon's organization. They had plenty of motivation to shut him up."

  "Is Cortez still in prison?"

  "Cortez is in hell. He was knifed in the yard soon after he started serving his term."

  Chapter Thirty-One.

  Tim Kerrigan needed help from someone with power and connections. Hugh Curtin was Tim's best friend, but what could "Huge" do about Ally Bennett? William Kerrigan had power and connections, but telling his father about his sordid relationship with a prostitute would only confirm every belief his father held about his son's failure to measure up. When Kerrigan thought about it, there was only one person he could go to for help.

  Harvey Grant lived alone high above city center, behind stone walls, in a secluded area of the West Hills. Tim stopped at the iron gate that blocked access to the judge's estate and spoke into a black metal call box. Victor Reis, an ex-cop in his fifties, who acted as a combination butler, bodyguard, and secretary for the judge, answered. Moments later, the gate swung open
and Tim drove up a long driveway before stopping in front of a three-story brick house of Federalist design.

  Most of the windows in Grant's mansion were dark, but the house was often alive with light and sound. The judge was famous for his large parties and intimate get-togethers. An invitation to one of Judge Grant's soirees was eagerly sought and cherished because it signified that you were one of Portland's elite.

  Tim parked in front of a recessed portico where Harvey Grant was waiting.

  "Come into the study," the judge said solicitously. "You look like you can use a strong drink."

  "I've done something incredibly stupid," Kerrigan said as they walked down a side hall to a wood-paneled den.