I could picture her on the other end of the line, the little furrow between her brows, the cupid’s bow of her lips pursed into an indignant pout. “What is it you want?”
“You’ve already said you had a contact. You can ask around, find out about the victim.”
“You already know more than I do. They say you’d been banging her for months.”
Months? I shook my head, although she couldn’t see it. “I didn’t even know her.”
“Then why are they saying you do?”
“There was a woman I met . . .” It sounded lame, even to me, but I ran it down for her anyway.
She was quiet for a moment. Then, “Conspiracy theories really aren’t your style.”
“You know I didn’t do this. If I was going to kill somebody, I would have done you a long time ago.”
On the other end of the line, there was a sound like a baby’s hiccup. When she spoke again, her voice sounded strained. “Maybe you should just turn yourself in. The police will figure it all out.”
This wasn’t necessarily true. Metro had a lot of good cops on the job, but like police forces everywhere, the department was overextended. They didn’t have time to chase shadows when, thanks to Heather, I’d become a prosecutor’s wet dream. It would be tempting just to throw me under the jail and close the books.
Especially considering the conditions under which I’d left.
“Ashleigh, I’m just saying, if I were the kind of guy who would do a thing like this, it would have happened by now. My wife left me, and I didn’t kill her. You . . . you were pretty much the devil incarnate, and I didn’t kill you.”
“Who knows?” She still sounded scared, but she’d gotten back some of her bravado. “Maybe everything just built up.”
“Think of the story. ‘Local Anchor Woman Clears Innocent Man.’ That could be you. That’s prize-winning material.”
There was another pause. “It would make a good story. But you have to promise me an exclusive.”
“It’s all yours.”
“I need to know exactly what happened last night. What happened with the woman. How your truck ended up at the murder scene. Can you come over and fill me in?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“This may take awhile, and I don’t want to do it on the phone. I need to see your face, your mannerisms.”
I thought about it. There was a chance she’d set me up. On the other hand, she’d climb Mt. Everest with her silk-wrapped, salon-painted fingernails for a story. Maybe she’d be curious enough to give me a day or two.
“Okay,” I said at last. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
When I hung up, Billy flung himself down on the couch with so much force it bounced. “I guess it won’t do me no good to tell you this is the damn-foolest thing you’ve ever done?”
“Billy,” I said, “desperate times call for desperate measures. And these, my friend, are desperate times.”
BILLY OFFERED TO DRIVE ME OVER. Instead, I walked a couple of blocks to Broadway and caught a cab to Ashleigh’s place in Green Hills, an upscale neighborhood south of downtown. I didn’t think she’d turn me in until she got her exclusive, but I wanted Mean Billy miles away from the place just in case she did.
She had a two-story, Elizabethan-style house with a pool in the backyard and a koi pond in the front. The front porch light radiated a washed-out glow that turned her dogwoods and azaleas into jagged black tangles. I had the cab driver circle the block twice to make sure there were no cops around. Then I got out, paid my fare, and threw myself to the sharks.
Shark.
Singular.
She met me at the door with a standard high society hug and kissed the air beside my cheek. The scent of her Bill Blass perfume brought back erotic memories. Rumpled sheets, chestnut hair splayed across my chest, the smell of sweat and flowers on her skin.
“Jared. It’s good to see you again. You still look scrumptious.” Scrumptious. She actually used words like that. She trailed one finger lightly down the buttons of my shirt and sighed. “Makes me wonder why I ever let you go.”
“Your source dried up.”
She pouted prettily. “Now, Jared. Don’t be cynical.”
“Getting canned because your girlfriend sneaked around and tapped your phone will make a person cynical. Not to mention getting framed for murder.”
She dropped her hand to her side and took a step back, averting her eyes. “So, how’s Paul?”
She’d never been comfortable with Paulie. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was a child or because he had Down syndrome. Maybe some of both. Ashleigh wasn’t exactly the maternal type.
“Fine,” I said. “They’re keeping an eye on his heart, but for now he’s doing okay.” Down’s kids have a tendency toward heart and respiratory problems. Leukemia too, though we’d been lucky on that count. Knock on wood.
“Well. That’s good, then. How old is he now? Six? Seven?”
“He’ll be eight next Wednesday.”
“My God.”
“He was going on seven when you and I were together.”
“I was thinking he was younger.” She was wearing a tight black miniskirt with a white silk blouse that skimmed all the right places. Her makeup had been flawlessly applied: smoky eye shadow, thick black lashes, pale smooth skin with a hint of blush, siren-red lips. “Well, enough small talk. Why don’t you sit down and tell me what happened, exactly? I’ll get us a drink. Do you still like Jack and Coke?”
I thought of the last time I’d had Jack and Coke and grimaced. “Nothing for me, thanks.”
“Nothing? Bourbon? Beer? Iced tea? Pepsi?”
“Tea, if it’s already made.”
She sashayed into the kitchen, hips swaying beneath the short skirt. I knew the show was for my benefit. I also knew that I could have been the plumber or the Terminex man, and she would have felt the same need to make me want her. I was easy pickings, but we both knew nothing would come of it.
I looked around while she was gone, noticed she’d changed her security system.
She came back carrying my tea and what looked like a glass of orange juice, but which was almost certainly a screwdriver.
“Made some changes,” I said, pointing to the new keypad.
She gave a dismissive wave. “Oh, that. I had a break-in a few months ago. Someone cut the wires on the system. But I guess something must have scared him away, because nothing was missing. Now . . . Tell me about this woman you met last night. What was her name? Amy something, wasn’t it?”
“No, that was the woman who was murdered. I never met her. This girl called herself ‘Heather,’ but that’s probably not her real name.”
I told her the story, from Heather’s request for a drink to reading my name in the paper.
When I’d finished, she leaned back, crossed her legs at the knee, and said, “That’s fascinating.”
And all hell broke loose.
A uniformed policeman burst through the door, gun drawn. Another couple of cops poured out of the bedroom.
I knew when I’d been beaten. Even if I’d had my gun, I knew better than to draw on cops. People who draw down on policemen tend to have very short life expectancies.
I put up my hands and let them search me, then went peaceably out to their patrol car, which must have been hidden in a neighbor’s garage.
I started to cover my face, but thanks to Ashleigh’s photograph, there wasn’t much point. Instead I took a deep breath and tried to exude an aura of dignified innocence.
Ashleigh trailed along behind us, looking delicate and shaken for the cameras she had obviously invited.
I looked at her and said, “Once a barracuda, always a barracuda.”
Her eyes were wide and innocent, brimming with unshed tears.
The cameras were rolling.
“OKAY, LET’S GO over this again.” Frank Campanella paused to take a gulp of the bitter brew that passed for coffee in the interrogation rooms. His partner on th
e case, Harry Kominski, was nowhere to be seen, probably watching from behind the two-way mirror.
In all the years I’d known Harry, I’d heard him say maybe fifteen words. He was the tallest man on the force, which, combined with his reticence, earned him the inevitable nickname ‘Lurch.’ He looked like a dumb galoot. He wasn’t.
I glanced toward the mirror, told myself to forget about Harry, and focused on Frank’s next question. “How long had you been seeing Mrs. Hartwell?”
I sighed and splayed my hands on the table. “For the hundredth time, I hadn’t been seeing her. I never even met the woman.”
“Then why did she have your name in her Palm Pilot in a dozen places?” He pulled out a small black electronic organizer and read, “ ‘Saw Jared today.’ ‘Jared and I fought.’ ‘Jared very angry today.’ ”
“There are a lot of Jareds in the world.”
“It says here in the address part, ‘Jared McKean.’ Is this your phone number?” He held it up so my lawyer and I could see it.
“You know it is.”
“And your address?”
“Yes.”
“This is Mrs. Hartwell’s organizer, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never met her.”
“And yet, she’s got your name all over the place.”
“So it seems.”
“Why would she have your name and address in her organizer if she didn’t know you?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know.”
Wallace Aaron, an up-and-coming young attorney whose name I had plucked out of the Yellow Pages, raised his hand in protest. “Detective Campanella, he’s already said he doesn’t know.”
“Swill.” Frank drained the last of the coffee and tossed the crumpled cup into the wastebasket. “You remember what swill this is?”
I forced a smile. “I remember.”
He stole a glance at my attorney, then turned his attention back to me. “Let me get this straight. What you’re saying is, this stranger you picked up in a bar had sex with you so she could steal your DNA and plant it at a murder scene?”
“I know it sounds implausible, but . . .”
“Implausible? Son, it sounds like a bad detective movie.”
“Detective . . .” Aaron’s tone held a warning.
Frank sighed and scraped his chair away from the table. “You know, Mac, I never believed any of the things they said about you, how you were feeding information to that reporter you were humping. I always stood up for you.”
“I know you did, and I appreciate that.”
“I wish to God I could believe you now.”
I looked down at my hands and forced the words from my tightening throat. “Frank, you know I’m not stupid. If I’d killed the girl, why would I have left all that evidence around? Let me ask you something. Where did you get my fingerprints?”
“You know I’m not at liberty—”
“A pair of wineglasses, maybe? Am I right?”
“Of course you’re right. But you could be right because you were there.”
“You don’t have to say anything else,” said Aaron. “In fact, I advise you not to.”
I ignored him and responded to Frank’s hypothesis. “No. Because that’s what was missing from the motel room. Were there traces of drugs in either glass?”
“We’re still waiting for the report to come back. Why? Did you drug her?”
“No, but she might have drugged me. In fact, I want a blood test and a urinalysis. As soon as possible, in case it’s Rohypnol.” Also known as ‘roofies,’ the date rape drug Rohypnol left traces in the bloodstream for up to forty-eight hours and in the urine for up to seventy-two.
“You’ll get ‘em, but I don’t need to tell you a prosecutor will just say you drugged yourself after you killed her.”
“Piece of the puzzle, as you always say. What about the bottle? Any prints there?”
“No prints on the bottle.”
“Why would I remember to wipe the bottle and not the glasses? And what about the rest of the motel room? Were my prints found anywhere else?”
“No,” he conceded.
“And the lineup. What happened with the lineup?” I’d been sure the clerk at the motel would clear me.
“Inconclusive. The man she saw had a beard and a mustache, but you could have pulled that off with stage makeup. You did it in vice often enough. Besides, with the Palm Pilot, the prints, the serology report, ballistics—we know the bullet that killed her came from your Glock—we didn’t need much more.” He raked his fingers through his silvering hair. “What I want to know is, why pose her like that? I know you’ve been through a lot lately, but she was your lover, for God’s sake. Why not leave her a little dignity?”
Aaron gave me a warning look. “I really have to recommend you not say anything more.”
“I didn’t pose her, Frank. I didn’t kill her. I didn’t fucking know her.”
He leaned forward and studied my face. Then he heaved himself out of his chair and turned away. “There’s something else, too.”
He tossed a manila folder onto the table in front of me.
“What’s this?”
“You tell me.”
I opened the folder, and a slender, pubescent girl with long pale hair and a pensive expression stared up at me from a glossy color photograph. I recognized her from the morning paper as Katrina Hartwell, the murdered woman’s daughter. The girl was naked, except for a gold crucifix and a pair of absurdly high heels. One hand clutched at a bit of white cloth that was probably a handkerchief.
“Kiddie porn?” I closed the folder without looking any further. My mouth tasted sour. “You’re not serious.”
“Found ‘em in your truck, right under the driver’s seat, along with traces of semen. Also from someone who’s AB negative. You want to explain that?”
My head was reeling as if I’d just been struck with a two-by-four. “Frank, you know I didn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .”
“Don’t say anything else,” Aaron said to me. “Not another word.”
“Doesn’t matter what I think,” Frank said. “This is going to hurt you. And the tape. That’s going to hurt, too.”
“I never called her.” My voice sounded dull, as if it came from somewhere far away. “I don’t know whose voice is on that tape, but it’s not mine.”
For a moment, his gray gaze held mine. Then his shoulders sagged and the lines of his face went slack with disappointment. In his eyes, I saw what he couldn’t say: I loved you like a son.
“It’s not mine, Frank,” I repeated.
He ran his hands over his face and said, “The voice recognition boys say it is.”
FRANK CAMPANELLA HAD WORKED for the Metro Nashville police force for thirty years. Twenty of those years had been spent solving homicides. For seven of those, he’d been my partner, my mentor, and my friend.
We’d spent many a weekend in his basement sipping ice cold Heinekens and building terrain for his Lionel electric trains: mountains carved from foam and flocked with green, weathered wooden trestles spanning lakes of blue acrylic, forests made of plastic armatures and dried moss, long stone fences made of sealed and painted Cap’n Crunch. Miniature people waited forever for their trains, reading tiny newspapers, clutching tiny suitcases.
We’d been to NASCAR races together and fished from his old dock, and the day a suspect named Caleb Wilford rammed a titanium-tipped arrow into my chest, it was Frank who put him down with a bullet to the head, then held a towel to my seeping wound until the paramedics came.
It had taken a lot to convince Frank I was guilty. I tried to feel angry about it, but all I could summon up was a heavy sadness that made me think of The Crucible and poor old Giles Corey being pressed with stones.
I sipped at the coffee he’d brought me and waited to be taken to Night Court, trying not to think about reasonable doubt and how a judge who knew a hell of a lot less about me than Frank did was about to decide whether or not the evidence against me w
as compelling.
I’d been through the routine a thousand times, but never from this side of things. Mug shots, fingerprinting, the strip search and cursory shower with the dour guard watching, the orange jumpsuit, being led to Night Court in cuffs. I saw the necessity, but I couldn’t say I liked it. I felt embarrassed and ashamed, a little less than human, even though I knew I hadn’t done what they’d accused me of.
I used my one phone call to tell my brother, Randall, where I was and what had happened. By the time I got to Night Court, which in Nashville operates twenty-four/seven, he was sitting in the gallery with his wife, Wendy, and their teenaged children. Caitlin, at thirteen, wore a flowered sundress that showed off her blond hair and her summer tan. She looked fresh and young and out of place. Seeing her, I felt old.
Josh, fifteen, sat slumped beside his mother, his face powdered pale, his pouting lips outlined and painted black. His long straight hair, which should have been the same light buckskin as his father’s and my own, had also been dyed black. When had the sensitive, creative kid I’d taught to play guitar become this sullen boy in whiteface? Even with the distance of the courtroom between us, I could feel Randall’s seething embarrassment.
I forced my thoughts back to the courtroom, where there were six other cases before mine. None involved homicide. Then the charges against me were read in a monotonous voice that barely penetrated the numbness in my brain. “Possession of child pornography,” I heard, and “Murder in the First Degree.” Some half-cognizant portion of my mind understood that they could go for the death penalty.
I hoped there were enough discrepancies in the crime scene to indicate the murder had been a crime of passion, but I was concerned about the bearded man the receptionist had seen. A disguise could be seen as proof of premeditation. On the other hand, if I were going to a rendezvous with a married woman, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that I might wear a disguise as a matter of course.
Yeah. Right.
I refused to think about the other charge. It bothered me more to think I was suspected of child porn than of murder.
Racing the Devil Page 4
