Designer Crimes

by Lia Matera

  “It would take an actual conviction to disqualify me, Ms. Leiden. This arrest is irrelevant.” I nearly added, “and stupid.” “What’s about Brad Rommel?”

  “I’ve had a message that he’s not in his cell.”

  I motioned for Sandy, shucking his wet jacket, to stand beside me. “What do you mean, Rommel’s not in his cell? Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. I was just notified. I was asked to contact you. We felt that you should be told, of course. And that you might have some information.”

  Sandy stared at me, hand extended to drape his jacket over the coat rack. “Rommel’s gone?” He mouthed the words.

  “Of course I don’t have any information.” I nodded to Sandy. “I just spent a night in your jail. It’s not someplace a person walks out of. What the hell happened?”

  “I don’t know,” she repeated. “He was locked up and under guard. I understand there was a very short lapse during which one guard left his station before the relief officer arrived—”

  “Why did he leave?”

  “ I gather it was a gastric emergency. I don’t know more. I’m just relaying the contents of the message I received.” She paused as if waiting to be challenged. “By the time the replacement arrived, Mr. Rommel had vanished.”

  “From a locked cell?”

  “Yes.”

  “So someone came and took him out. You’re not claiming he escaped?”

  “I’ve you all I know.”

  The rage I’d tethered all day threatened to explode from every pore.

  I said to Sandy, “Someone hustled Rommel out of there when he wasn’t being guarded.” To Leiden, I said, “What are you doing to find him?”

  “I’m sure the sheriff is following the protocols.”

  “I don’t care about the protocols.” And judging from Bartoli’s behavior, they didn’t mean much anyway. “I want you—you personally—to talk to the sheriff and the city police. There’s no way Rommel could have gotten out unless someone opened the door for him. You tell the cops: don’t harm Rommel. Don’t shoot at him no matter what it looks like, no matter what he seems to be doing.”

  “I wouldn’t presume to tell the sheriff how to do his job.”

  “Yes, you would. Because I’m right and you know it. He didn’t just walk out of there. If my client gets hurt as a result of this, I’ll sue the sheriff. And I’ll sue you.” It was a sop to my anger; not nearly enough to scare her or to assuage me. I wanted to thrash her. “I presume Rommel’s cabin is being staked out?”

  “I would imagine so.” Something in her voice tripped my alarms. Her coldness raised gooseflesh on my still-wet skin.

  “There is something terribly wrong here, Ms. Leiden. I hope to god you’re trying to figure out what it is.” I hit the disconnect button.

  Sandy shook the rain off his jacket. “Where he is depends on who got him out.”

  “Bartoli got him out.”

  “Bartoli again. Why?”

  “I have no idea why.”

  “No. I mean why do you think so? What’s the deal with Bartoli?”

  I explained what had happened in my jail cell. Sandy listened, scowling.

  My uncle, who’d run upstairs to change clothes, was coming down threading his arms into the sleeves of a cardigan. “Any calls for me?”

  “I don’t know.” The answering machine light blinked relentlessly. No doubt reporters had filled it. “Sandy and I have to go out for a while. I’m going to take a minute to clean myself up. Check the messages in case any are from Brad.”

  He stopped, looking down at us from mid-stair. “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s missing.”

  His face smoothed with relief. “I thought he was in jail again.”

  “He was. Now he isn’t.” Why did he look relieved? What had he been afraid I’d say?

  I dashed past him up the stairs, saying, “I need to go to his cabin; talk to whoever’s in charge of the stakeout. Make sure they don’t have orders to shoot him.”

  I brooded about it as I quickly washed, then slipped on clean clothes.

  What I’d heard in Leiden’s voice was tacit agreement with the cops to shoot Rommel on sight. Rommel would be dropped into the middle of a stakeout, and he’d get killed there. Whoever had pulled him out of jail wanted the Piatti case closed.

  When I got back downstairs, I said, “This town is nothing but a banana republic.”

  My uncle, turning from the answering machine, looked stung.

  “Nothing from Rommel,” Sandy said.

  He’d put his wet jacket back on, combed back his dripping hair.

  When I reached him, I wrapped my arms around him. We were much more than friends who worked together.

  His embrace didn’t leave much doubt that he agreed.

  We dashed back out to his car, reaching it before reporters in parked vans could jump out to question us. Sandy was around the corner before they engaged their engines.

  I twisted the rear-view mirror, watching for their vans to follow. Sandy took another corner, then another.

  I said, “We’ll probably come back later and find they’ve beaten up my uncle out of pure frustration.”

  Sandy was frowning, his jaw clamped.

  “This doesn’t fit your theory that Rommel’s lying,” I guessed. “Unless you think he escaped without help.”

  “Course not. He didn’t get out of a locked cell without help.” He wiped the fogged windshield, hitting the defrost button. The rain beat faster than the wipers could clear. The night was moonless, wild and loud with battering water and whistling wind. “That’s the problem: it just doesn’t figure.”

  “Nothing figures.”

  Exuding testiness, Sandy drove the slick streets more quickly than I’d have dared. I fiddled with the car radio, checking whether a police bulletin had issued, whether we could expect every backwoods rifle-owner to be on the watch for Brad Rommel. But all we heard were the usual DJs bantering, the same old country songs and mellow rock. The sheriff’s embarrassment apparently exceeded his panic. But he’d have to find Rommel fast to avoid admitting that he’d lost him.

  “The more the case against Rommel falls apart,” I pointed out, “the more they heap on ancillary charges: bail jumping, now escape. I think Brad’s right. I think someone in law enforcement”—I didn’t bother saying Jay Bartoli; who else could it be?—“is out to get him.”

  “What’s Bartoli got against Rommel? Something from way back? High school?”

  “I don’t know. He thinks Brad had a thing about me.”

  “Did he?”

  “No. We went out a little. But I had it bad for Gary Gleason. Everyone knew it.” The dearest desire of my heart had been the worst choice of my life. And it wasn’t the last time I made that mistake.

  I glanced at Sandy’s profile, outlined by dashboard lights. I’d thrown away four years of my life on a second bad call. I could have had this instead: taking comfort in someone’s presence, thinking synergistically, speaking in shorthand, having absolute faith and confidence. I put my hand on his knee, wondering how to express the regret, the apology. He covered my hand with his.

  When we reached the dairy flats beneath Rommel’s cabin, I asked,” You think the road up will be okay?” I’d never driven it in this kind of weather.

  “Sheriff’ll stop us before we get that far. They won’t let us blunder in where they’ve got armed men prowling. We’ll see uniforms before we get up to the dirt section.”

  I was relieved. For once, I wanted to see uniforms as soon as possible. I wanted to know what their orders were. If necessary, I’d ask Uncle Henry to intercede with Sheriff Turitte.

  “Having you in their face will make a difference,” Sandy consoled me. “They can’t be too stupid with Rommel’s lawyer right there.”

  “Assuming
no one panics.”

  We started up the overgrown rise, tires crushing huge stalks and leaves blown off roadside brush. When the undergrowth gave way to pines and fir and redwoods, Sandy slowed down.

  Even with high beams on, it was difficult to see beyond the rain. Timber creaked, the wind howled through trees a hundred years tall.

  “We should have seen somebody by now.” Sandy sounded worried.

  “They wouldn’t be too overt. They don’t want to scare Rommel off. They’ll want him to get at least as far as the cabin before spotting them.”

  “But we’re not Rommel. They’ve got to be watching the road carefully enough to see that.”

  “Assuming they can see me in here, they might think I’m meeting him. Maybe they want me to get closer in case Rommel’s watching.” I was trying to push away my disquiet. They’d consider Rommel dangerous, that was the other side of it. They wouldn’t want anyone bumping into him, even his lawyer. Would they?

  “If there’s no sign of them by the time we reach the cabin, I’d guess they found him already.” He gestured toward the passenger window. “Keep an eye out. See if anything moves in the woods. High beams might catch something if anyone’s out there.”

  I wiped the inside of the window with my sleeve. But all I could see was rain, dark sheets of it.

  We wound farther up the road. Sandy stopped where the concrete ended. “No sense getting stuck in the mud. God damn, I hate to go outside in this.”

  Up ahead, Brad’s cabin was a large silhouette among smaller shapes. I opened the passenger door, hoping to spot something the windshield had obscured.

  “They should have approached us by now,” Sandy fretted. “Either it’s the most unprofessional damn bunch of sheriff’s—”

  “It is.”

  “Or this is a wild goose chase.”

  “Well, we’re already wet.” I slid out into a pelting downpour.

  Within seconds, I was drenched, my clothes flogging me, the wind trying to batter me back downhill. Sandy appeared beside me, swearing over the roar of forest storm. He clicked on a flashlight and handed me its mate. Then he put his arm around my shoulder, helping me fight the squall as we struggled toward Brad’s cabin.

  The cabin was unlighted. The ground leading up to it, littered with pine cones and redwood branches, showed no sign of footprints or human scatter, nothing to suggest hiding deputies.

  We moved as quickly as we could, seeking the shelter of the porch. Our feet hit the wooden steps, adding rhythm to the thumping of tree limbs against the sides of the cabin.

  I blinked rain from my eyes, grateful to be under even so leaky a roof. Drips hit porch planks around me, adding a quick pulse to the drumming. I shined the light overheard, seeing the rudeness of the outer structure. Sandy, I noticed, shined his light through the cabin windows. After a cursory look, he shone it into the trees.

  “Where the hell is everyone? I think they must have grabbed Rommel in town somewhere. I don’t see any sign they even made it up here.”

  But if he was looking for proof we weren’t alone, he had it soon enough. A shot exploded somewhere close by, deafeningly loud against the ambient gin of the gale.

  Sandy fell against me, pulling me down, almost snapping my leg beneath me. “Cut your light, cut it now!”

  I’d dropped my flashlight. I lunged for it. But another blast ricocheted off the boards beside it.

  “Leave it!” he said. “Get to the other side of the cabin. I’ll deal with this.”

  I couldn’t see him in the darkness. But I could feel him fumble for something under his anorak. He’d brought his .38. At least, I hoped so.

  “Run!” He gave me a push. “Keep low, keep in shadows. If a light hits you, dive. Get behind something, if you can.”

  “Are you going to—”

  He gave me another push. I scraped the heels of my hand, caught my pants leg on a nail and felt the fabric rip. But I got myself around the corner of the three-sided porch. Slipping onto all fours, I ran and stumbled to woods side of the cabin, away from the driveway, away from where the shot was fired.

  I could hear porch boards groan—or maybe it was trees swaying. I imagined Sandy flat against the cabin wall checking his gun, listening. I heard a series of clunks as of footsteps on the porch stairs. I looked cautiously around the corner, needing to know what had happened.

  My flashlight, still on, was out in the driveway. Sandy had pitched it. Hoping our companion would fire again? Hoping to get a fix on his location?

  I almost screamed when Sandy materialized in front of me, almost running straight into me.

  He swore quietly. “I thought you were going round to the other side.”

  “I thought you were still near the door.”

  “Ran when I threw the flashlight. Didn’t want him following the trajectory. God damn. Nasty night.”

  I looked out into the trees beside the cabin. A wall of rain obscured everything but the broadest movements: limbs dropping, plants waving. A glint of headlight from Sandy’s car just made it into the foliage, catching a few slick edges.

  Another explosion. I don’t know what Sandy saw, what made him expect it. But instantly, Sandy had me on the ground. Then he gave me a push toward the back of the cabin.

  I didn’t bother to rise. I moved like some hunched animal, scrabbling in the direction I’d been pushed.

  At the back of the cabin where the porch ended, I jumped down and ran in the rain and mud a little farther. I stood panting with shock. I listened with everything I had. But the storm led an orchestra of howling wind, rain on broad leaves and wet duff, limbs pounding the porch roof. I strained to hear Sandy’s footsteps, his voice, his instructions. I waited, the rain tattooing my cold-numbed skin. I held my breath, trying to catch any noise from him. I fought the sudden worry that he’d been hit, that he’d gone down when the shot sounded. That he’d pushed me away with his dying strength.

  I watched and listened, not knowing what else to do. I considered creeping back toward him. But I didn’t know where the shots came from, only that Sandy had pushed me in this direction, only that he’d preferred me to be here rather than with him—assuming he was still where I’d left him.

  I stood paralyzed in the cacophony of a thousand sounds, all of them wild and elemental, none of them what I hoped to hear.

  I stood until I thought I’d rather be shot than be so wet, so cold, so scared. I hoisted myself back onto the porch. I walked quickly along the side, again peering around the corner. This time, there was no sign of Sandy. Rather than skirt the front of the house—put myself in range like a duck in a shooting gallery—I retraced my steps. I jumped off the end of the porch, and squelched again through the mud and gravel in back.

  When I’d walked the length of the far side, I peered around front. Still no sign of Sandy. My flashlight remained shining on the walkway where he’d thrown it. But I caught no glimmer of Sandy’s. He wouldn’t turn it on as long as it would make him a target.

  Through the deluge, I saw the car lights, barely illuminating a six-foot sphere of blowing, racketing rain.

  At that moment, when I was busy searching rather than listening, I finally heard something unlike the now-familiar drumming of water and cry of wind. I heard a crackling sucking noise: footsteps on gravel-covered mud. The same sound I’d made walking behind the house.

  I wheeled around, regretting my brief glance at the car, hoping my eyes were still accustomed to the night.

  For an instant, I couldn’t decide between flight and confrontation. It might be Sandy approaching. It might be sheriff’s deputies, at last. If I ran, I’d only make a target of myself.

  I could see a shape now, a dark body against the darker backdrop of night. In that instant, I learned a great deal: that it wasn’t Sandy, that it wasn’t Rommel, that it wasn’t a deputy.

  But I’d waited to
o long, trusting to fate. I’d made the wrong choice. If I ran now, I’d be shot in the back, I was sure.

  Watching the dark figure advance, I wanted to rend my clothes and pull my hair; punish myself for the foolishness that might cost me dearly, might cost me everything.

  I’d been stupid. I’d believed what I was told even when it made no sense, when it was scarcely possible.

  The figure stopped fifteen feet from me. It was too dark to see details. But the outline told me enough.

  A habit of caution kept me from speaking. Maybe if I mentioned no names, I would be perceived as less of a threat, as someone continuing to embrace false conjectures. Maybe if I remained silent, it wouldn’t be apparent that I knew the truth now. It wouldn’t be necessary to shoot me. But then again, I’d been brought here to be shot. No more masked men in office corridors. Sometimes you have to bite the bullet and do your own dirty work.

  I was near the side of the cabin.

  I dove around the corner, hearing the crack of a gunshot and the splinter of wood. Still running, I bent to scoop up anything, anything at all to throw. I was lucky, my fingers closed on a length of broken branch. I hurled it toward the car; heard another bullet blast as the branch landed. I’d bought a few seconds. I made it to the woods side of the cabin. As long as I could keep some corner between us, I was safe. Until my stratagem became apparent, anyway. Until I got headed off instead of chased around, I stood a chance. And every shot fired at me told Sandy where to aim. (I couldn’t, wouldn’t believe he’d been hit, lay dying in the mud. I wouldn’t think it. Couldn’t.)

  Behind the cabin, I became lost in dread and indecision. Should I continue around and risk discovery of my transparent scheme, walk right into the outstretched gun? Or should I double back?

  Every second I hesitated seemed a year of worry. Every sound seemed too loud, too likely to mask what I needed to hear: the killer’s approach.

  I dashed away from the house and into the woods. I heard another salvo, couldn’t tell if it came from my right or left, whether I should have doubled back or kept circling.

  I slipped once. It didn’t slow me down. I ran on all fours like a beast until I regained my balance. I ran knowing I wasn’t alone, that I was being followed. I knew it because it made sense that I would be. I could hear nothing but the pelting rain.