She leaned back. “Are you looking for my dad? If you think my dad would ever hurt my mom, he wouldn’t. He’s an asshole. Not a murderer.”
Maybe she was right.
Maybe he wasn’t a killer.
But it was possible he had the means to hire someone who was.
CHAPTER 16
I’d opened the car door and was about to duck inside when a flashy red number whipped into the driveway in front of Alexandra Weston’s house. The coupe jerked to a stop. A giant of a man with salt-and-pepper hair stepped out. He was six foot five and every bit of solid. Dressed in a black leather jacket with the collar up, jeans, and square-toe, polished black shoes, it was obvious he liked to make a lasting impression.
He turned in my direction, lifted a pair of black shades off his face, and flashed me a sly grin that made me sick to my stomach, like he imagined me without any clothes on. Even with his chiseled Anderson Cooper looks, he radiated an uncomfortable vibe, and I found myself clearing my throat multiple times. Finch, on the other hand, was stepping out of the car and in front of me, like a hockey goalie protecting the net from a puck.
I stepped around Finch, attempted to walk over to Porter. He grasped me by the wrist.
I flashed him a look that said, What are you doing?
He leaned in close. “I don’t like this guy.”
“You don’t even know him,” I whispered.
“Neither do you.”
“He’s fine. I can handle this.”
“I never said you couldn’t.”
He didn’t have to say it. It was obvious.
Before I could say anything more, the man said, “Hello?”
I turned toward him. “Porter Wells?”
He held out a hand. I shook it. He did a quarter turn and offered the same hand to Finch. Finch nodded, didn’t take it.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the Nancy Drew of the Forensics Channel,” Porter joked. “I imagine you’re here to see Alex. Haven’t you heard what happened?”
“I have. I was at the bookstore the night she died.”
A second car turned into the driveway behind Porter’s. Chelsea walked around to the passenger side and opened the door.
Porter looked at Chelsea. “Sweetie, can I talk to you for a minute before you leave?”
She ignored him, slid inside the car, and slammed the door.
Porter smiled like nothing had happened and said, “Excuse me a moment.”
He walked to the driver’s side of the car, knocked on the window. The window came partway down. Porter whispered something too quiet for me to hear. A male about the same age as Chelsea with short, black hair and olive skin smiled and said, “Sorry, Mr. Wells. Chelsea doesn’t want to talk to you right now.”
“Bradley, put the window up,” Chelsea growled. “Let’s go.”
Porter grimaced. “Bradley, please tell my daughter to work on her manners and show some respect.”
“Respect?” Chelsea spat. “You need to give it to receive it.”
“Chelsea, if you would give me a few minutes. I need to talk to you about—”
“Stop it! Just don’t. I want you out of mom’s house by the end of the week.”
“The house isn’t just your mother’s,” Porter said.
“Correction,” Chelsea fired back. “Mom’s attorney just sent me a text. He wants to talk to me.”
“About what?”
“He said the house isn’t in your name. It’s in hers, and she left it to me.”
“What else did he say?”
“Nothing. Yet.”
Chelsea leaned across Bradley’s chest and put his window up. The car backed out of the driveway.
“Please, Chelsea,” Porter pleaded. “Can’t we talk about this?”
Chelsea pressed her middle finger to the glass, and the car sped up the road. Porter bowed his head, massaging his temples with his hand. “What a brat.”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“You saw what just happened,” Porter said. “Can you blame me?”
“She just lost her mother.”
“So, what, she gets a free pass to treat me like dirt? She’s not the only one who’s hurting.”
He didn’t appear to be hurting to me.
“Don’t you think there’s a reason she’s acting this way?” I said.
“She’s upset. Probably thinks if she hurts me, it will make her feel better.” He raised a brow. “If you know Alex is dead, why are you here?”
“To ask you about your wife’s life insurance policy.”
Hands on hips, he tapped a foot on the ground like an unruly child. “Her life insurance? What right do you have showing up here and asking me personal questions that aren’t your business?”
“I’ve heard a lot about you in the past twenty-four hours.”
“From whom?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“What have you heard?”
“You’ve had multiple affairs over the years. Your marriage was nothing more than a piece of paper you no longer honored. As soon as Chelsea married, Alexandra was filing for divorce. You signed a prenup when you married her. With the marriage over, you’d be broke, left with nothing. No money to pay for the lifestyle you’d become accustomed to living. Should I keep going?”
I expected him to blow up. Yell. Curse. He didn’t. He shook his head. Disgusted. “You think I offed Alex to collect on her life insurance policy? Really?”
He snorted a laugh.
“I don’t see why it’s so funny to you.”
“Oh, it’s funny,” he said. “Alexa isn’t my wife anymore. She hasn’t been for the last three months.”
CHAPTER 17
Porter’s revelation about the dissolution of his marriage was a bombshell I hadn’t expected. “If you’re not still married to Alexandra, why were the two of you keeping everyone in the dark?”
“I have my reasons,” Porter replied. “So did she.”
“I’m listening.”
“For a long time our marriage had been a winding, nonstop, roller coaster ride, and I wanted off.”
“From what I understand, the feeling was mutual,” I said.
“I see how you look at me, like I’m nothing more than a money-hungry animal who cheats on his wife.”
“Oh, so I have it all wrong then? You’re a saint? Are you denying you were unfaithful in the marriage, trying to say you didn’t sleep with other women? She’s dead now. You can stop lying.”
He shook his head. “Women like you are so full of prejudgments. You don’t see anything except what you want to see, and you never will.”
Finch cut in. “That’s enough.”
Porter laughed. “You think I’m the one keeping secrets? I confessed to mine. Alex took hers to the grave. And I have to say, she played the victim card for all it was worth. Even my daughter hates me.”
“When Chelsea left just now, you tried to tell her something.”
He nodded. “I wanted to be the one to break the news that her mother and I were no longer married. Now she gets to hear it from the attorney. Doesn’t matter now, I suppose. Maybe he should be the one to tell her. She wouldn’t believe it if it came from my lips.”
It made no sense. A divorce no one knew about?
“Why would you agree to do what Alexandra wanted just because she asked? If you weren’t getting anything out of the divorce, what was your motivation to keep quiet?”
He smiled, and my assumptions got the better of me again. There was only one possible motivation for guys like Porter. Money.
“She offered you cash to keep quiet, didn’t she?”
He winked. “You’re a bright girl.”
“There’s still something missing from this story though, something you’re not saying.”
“Perhaps.”
“And now she’s dead. What possible motivation would you have to continue to keep her secrets?”
“Look, Miss Jax. I’m not sure why you’re here, or why you care
about what happened to Alex, but you need to understand something. Despite how innocent she seemed, Alex made her share of enemies over the years.”
“Enemies like who? Was someone threatening her?”
“Can’t say for sure. My guess? She finally went too far, stumbled upon something she shouldn’t have.”
He knew more than he was letting on. I could almost taste it. Our conversation was a series of half-truths I’d have to sift through if I wanted to find the answers.
“Anything I say from now on will be to the police,” he said, “and in the presence of my attorney. Goodbye, Miss Jax.”
He turned and walked away toward the house. I felt defeated and frustrated, like I’d stumbled upon something big, but I didn’t know what yet.
Porter reached the front door and looked back. “Allow me to leave you one last piece of advice before you go. You owe nothing to Alex. She made no apologies to the people she hurt and betrayed over the years. Leave her murder up to the police to investigate, or you could wind up dead too.”
CHAPTER 18
Elias Pratt
September 13, 1985
During the time he’d been incarcerated, Elias didn’t have many visitors. So when a young, thirty-something-year-old woman strolled through the door, ample hips swaying side to side, taut breasts on high alert like they were trying to bust out of her slim, fitted shirt, he was sure someone was messing with him, playing a sick joke to make his life even more torturous than it already was. The woman he’d imagined in his mind was a lot older, plain, and dull.
This couldn’t be the woman he’d been told about.
Yet, here she was before him.
The woman flashed him a confident smile, flicked her long brown hair out of her eye, and sat down. “Hello, Mr. Pratt. My name is Alexandra Weston. Did they tell you I was coming?”
“Yeah,” he said, eyes still glued to her chest. “They told me. You’re some kind of reporter, right?”
“I’m some kind of writer. And ... I’d appreciate it if you kept your eyes on me, please.”
He grinned. “Oh, they are on you. Believe me.”
Alexandra frowned. “Let me rephrase. Keep your eyes on mine. I can assure you, my tits have nothing to do with the reason why I’m here.”
Balls and beauty.
She kept getting better and better.
“No offense, but if you wanted me to focus on your lovely face, maybe you should have worn a different shirt.”
Alexandra glanced down, crossed her arms over her chest. Elias shifted his gaze to the woman’s face, noticing her brow had started to perspire. Not a lot. Just a few clear beads of moisture. Just enough to make it obvious in an otherwise frigid room.
“You sure are pretty,” he said. “Bet you get told that all the time though.”
Alexandra gnawed on the inside of her cheek, tapped a bright-pink manicured fingernail on the table. “If you’re not serious about talking to me today, Mr. Pratt, I can leave. There are other death-row inmates across the country willing to be the subject of my next book.”
He leaned forward. “Chill, baby. I like the company. I mean, I’m glad you’re here, glad you picked me. I’m flattered.”
“I didn’t pick you. My publisher did.”
“I saw you at my trial last year. Didn’t know why you showed up day after day. Figured you were with the press or something.”
“I like to do my research.”
“Fair enough.”
“I’m here to write a story. Your story.”
“A book?”
She nodded.
“You want to write a book ... about me?”
She nodded again.
“Why?”
“Why what?” she asked.
“Why me?”
“You’ve become a household name. You know that, right?”
He shrugged. “Guess so. I don’t know much about what everyone thinks anymore, now that I’m in here.”
“People want to know more about you. About your life.”
“They know about it already. Been in the paper for the last year and a half.”
“It’s not just your present predicament people are interested in, or the fact you refused to take the stand and tell your side of things in court. It’s your past. What you were like as a child, as a teenager ... people are curious. They find you unique and interesting. They want to know the person you were before you ended up here.”
“Why does it matter now? I’m going to die. Why does anyone care?”
She crossed one leg over the other. “You’re unique. You’re attractive. Especially to all the women out there who see you as more than just a killer. They all want to know you. The real Elias Pratt.”
“What does my childhood have to do with it?”
“Most murderers have a troubled past. They came from broken homes or suffered a form of serious trauma in their lives. You’re different. You weren’t raised poor. You had a good family, loving parents who had made a name for themselves in this town. What I’m saying is you don’t fit the typical mold of a killer.”
“So?”
“So, how does a man like you, living a life of privilege, decide one day he wants to aspire to be a thief and a murderer? What made you act on those urges, or were they even urges at all?”
He leaned back in the metal chair, grinned. “Those are good, solid questions.”
“You’ve been locked up for well over a year now. Have you thought about it? Do you even know?”
He diverted his attention away from her, rubbing his thumb over a callous on his hand. He’d thought a little about what he’d done since he was arrested. Not a lot though. He didn’t see the point. The pastor of his local church had visited a few times, always trying to elicit a feeling of regret from Elias, a feeling of remorse and repentance. The pastor went on and on about the importance of being cleansed of his sins by seeking out forgiveness from God. Elias didn’t believe in God. He didn’t really believe in anything.
Alexandra seemed to sense his thoughts had taken him out of their present conversation.
“I’m getting ahead of myself,” she said. “I shouldn’t have started by talking about people and their curiosities. I should have explained what I hope to achieve by telling your story.”
“What you hope to achieve? It’s all about money, isn’t it? You can sit here all day and talk to me about how much you care about my story, about me as a person. Let’s be honest. Your publisher only sees profit, and you only see publicity.”
“I never pretended otherwise.” She glanced at her watch. “I was hoping to achieve more today, but I’m almost out of time.”
“I thought this was an interview. You just got here.”
“This was only meant to be an introduction, Mr. Pratt. They don’t give me a lot of time on these visits. I’ll see what I can do to get a longer session next time.”
Alexandra stood, her chair screeching along the floor as she pushed it beneath the table.
She turned, but he wasn’t done with her yet. “I never agreed to a next time. I only agreed to a first time. Without my approval, you don’t have much of a story, do you?”
“I’m not here to play games. I’ll need to meet with you as much as I’m allowed until I have enough information for my story. Could be weeks. Could be months. Are you in or out?”
“Maybe I’m not interested in a book being written about me.”
“Then why did you agree to our visit today?”
After spending almost every moment of every day wasting away in a cell without the stimulating conversation he craved, he’d grown bored. No one on the inside appeared to have an IQ over seventy, and for some, nearing seventy was even a stretch. Still, the thought of a book written about his life from someone else’s perspective wasn’t appealing. She’d write what she wanted to write, spinning his story any way she chose. Why agree? He knew how she saw him: Weak. Helpless. Malleable.
She was wrong.
Looking at her now,
it was easy to determine her type—pushy and aggressive, a woman used to getting what she wanted when she wanted it. And even though he didn’t know her yet, he didn’t need to—he hated her already. And not just her: her kind. All the self-righteous women like her who’d looked down on him his entire life, even though they were all the same class of people.
No.
Even after all the effort she’d gone through to look irresistible to him, he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of being the patsy for her next story.
He opened his mouth, planning on telling her to get lost, but then stopped when another thought came to mind. In a game of wits, he was smarter. Of this he was certain.
What if she was made to be the fool instead of him?
“Mr. Pratt, did you hear me?” she asked. “If you weren’t okay with me writing your story, why see me today?”
Voice somber and even, he said, “If I agree, what’s in it for me?”
“What do you want?”
“Better food. A different cell. Privileges.”
She tipped her head back, laughed. “I’m a writer, not a magician. You get to tell your truth. Your story. Are you saying you’re not interested?”
He bowed his head, tried to muster up a tear or two. When they didn’t come, he sniffled. “My family has been through enough because of me. I don’t want them to suffer anymore. It isn’t right.”
By the look on her face, he could see his response wasn’t what she’d expected. “Most people I write about want to be infamous, never forgotten. With this book, you won’t be. Not in five years. Not in fifty.”
“I’m not most men. I don’t care about any of that.”
“I didn’t say you were. Look, Mr. Pratt, there’s no set story here. If you’re not the devil everyone has made you out to be, prove it. Now’s your chance to tell your side of things.”
“My side of things was told in court.”
“Not by you. You pled not guilty, let your lawyers do the talking for you, refused to take the stand. You risk nothing by confessing whatever truths you need to confess now. You’ve been sentenced. Nothing will change your fate now.”
“Nothing except my appeals.”
A View to a Kill Page 27
