"You're suspended from your job as of this moment."
"You're making a mistake. You don't even know what I learned-"
"I'm not interested. We'll need your firearm."
"I'm not carrying one," Justin said.
"What the hell kind of cop are you?"
"In my experience, especially in a town like this, carrying a gun doesn't solve too many problems, it just causes them."
"Well, you do have a gun, don't you?"
Justin's eyes didn't waver as he took Silverbush's sneer head-on. "Yes, I have one."
"Where is it?"
"In my office. In the desk. Upper right-hand drawer. It's locked, but Officer Haversham'll have a key."
"I'll take your badge, as well," Silverbush said. "Or you keep that under lock and key, too?"
Justin looked at Leona Krill, said, "Leona? You have anything to say? I work for you."
She sighed. "I don't have much of a choice here, Jay. DA Silverbush is in charge of this investigation."
Justin didn't look over at the district attorney, just said to Leona, "I'm telling you he doesn't know what he's doing."
Silverbush snorted. "I'd say the evidence proves I know a helluva lot more than you do. Now, you gonna hand over that badge?"
Justin reached into his left pant pocket, withdrew his EEHPD badge, handed it to Silverbush, who said, "Captain Holden will accompany you over to the police station. As a courtesy we'll let you talk to your lady friend for a little bit. But after that, I'm telling you to stay away from her or we'll have you locked up for obstruction of justice faster'n you can scratch your rapidly diminishing balls. You got anything to say to that?"
"Yeah," Justin said and turned to the police captain. "Is your name really William Holden?"
When the officer didn't answer, and Silverbush just snorted in disgust and anger, Justin decided it was better if he didn't say another word, so he just turned to the door and headed out. Holden had to hustle a bit to catch up to him. Neither spoke during the two-block walk to the police station. Even if they'd wanted to, they couldn't have-the swarm of journalists was upon them, peppering them with questions and taking photos. Justin looked straight ahead and kept walking. There was usually a reasonable amount of traffic on Main Street-typical summer resort town traffic: cars driving slowly while their drivers desperately searched for a place to park-and what traffic there was now stopped cold as mass rubbernecking took hold. Pedestrians stared and people started coming out of shops to check out the commotion. Justin thought the whole scene looked like something out of a bad comedy: two stiff-as-boards cops, striding as fast as they could; a jabbering group of reporters surrounding them like a cloud of dust; the whole town watching in astonishment. Farce or slapstick, he thought. Hard to tell which.
When they reached the station, the reporters were barred from coming inside and Justin welcomed the sudden silence. He didn't much welcome the gaping stares from the young officers working the station, though. And the staring eyes only bulged farther as they watched Justin go to his desk-escorted by Captain Holden-pull out his gun, and hand it over, barrel first.
"I'd like to see Mrs. Harmon. And I'd like a few minutes of privacy."
Holden thought it over for a moment, then nodded. Mike Haversham led Justin to the one jail cell at the back of the station. As he did, he slipped a piece of paper into Justin's hand. The paper was carefully folded. Justin didn't acknowledge the exchange, nor did Haversham as Justin slipped it into his pocket.
Justin peered through the bars at Abby. She looked remarkably calm. Haggard, a bit drawn, but still cool and in control. It was hard to look as if you were in control when you were behind bars, Justin thought. He knew that from personal experience, when he'd been imprisoned and had been anything but in control.
Haversham opened the door to the jail cell and Justin stepped inside. Mike closed the door behind him, eyes aimed at the floor rather than at his now-suspended chief. The young cop shuffled back toward the central room where all the cops except Justin had their desks. He looked as if he were in mourning.
"We do meet in the strangest places," Justin said. It got a brief smile from Abby. "You all right?"
She nodded. "My lawyer should arrive soon. I'll be better when I'm out of here."
"You should probably stay in the city for a while. It'll be a lot easier on you than being out here."
Abby nodded again. "That's my plan. I'll stay in our apartment for a while, until this gets cleared up."
Justin couldn't help but notice the word "our." Now that Evan was dead, she was sharing her possessions with her husband again.
"Are you in trouble?" Abby asked.
"Depends on how you define trouble," he said. "If you mean, do I care what people think and how they're responding, no."
"Must be why we get along so well," Abby said. "We've got so much in common."
"With a few differences," Justin said.
"A few."
He reached out, took hold of both her hands. She relaxed at his touch, then tensed a bit when she realized he wasn't holding her strictly for affection. His hands felt for her forearms, and his thumbs pressed down lightly just above her wrists. She tried pulling back, but he held tight.
"I want you to relax," he told her. "And I want to ask you a few questions."
Her eyes narrowed, but she nodded.
"Did you kill Evan?" The question was casual, as if being thrown out in cocktail party conversation.
"Jay, what are you-?"
"Answer me, please. Did you kill Evan?"
"No."
"Did Dave Kelley?"
"I don't know."
"Take a guess."
"Will you let go of me, please?"
"No. Take a guess. Did Kelley murder Evan?"
"No."
"Did you know that Kelley had a stun gun?"
"What?"
"Just answer the question."
"I don't actually know what a stun gun is, but, yes, I know he had one."
"How?"
"Because he talked about it a couple of times. And he showed it to me. But it was before-"
"Before what? Before you began sleeping with him?"
She sighed. "Yes."
"How did it come up in conversation?"
"Oh, god, I have no idea. I think we'd been having some problems with animals or something-you know, digging up plants or doing something with the compost heap at the back of the property, I'm not sure."
"And?"
"And Dave said something about how he liked to take care of whatever they were, those big things with masks and ringed tails."
"Raccoons."
"Yes. Dave said that he had a stun gun. He said it was fun to use it on the raccoons."
"He had a strange idea of fun."
"Yes. He used it in front of us once, me and Evan. He showed us how it worked."
"Did you think it was fun?"
"No." She looked directly in Justin's eyes now, not flinching. "Dave could be extremely cruel sometimes." He met her stare. Finally she turned her head away and said, "Jay, what does this have to do… Oh my god… those burns. Those burns on Evan's body."
"Yes. It looks like they were from Kelley's stun gun."
"Oh my god."
"Do you still think he couldn't have done it?"
Now there was a real hesitation. This wasn't defiance, this was confusion, maybe even a touch of panic. "I don't know."
"Did you ever tell anyone you wanted Kelley to kill Evan?"
"For god's sake! No!"
"Even joking?"
"No!"
"Was Evan gay?"
"What?!" He had pushed her over the edge. Abby tried to stand up and jerk her hands away, but he refused to let go. He pulled her back down beside him, waited until she stopped resisting.
"Was he bi? Did Evan have homosexual affairs?"
"That's ridiculous."
"So you think it's impossible?"
"Jay, I'm starting to think that nothi
ng's impossible. How can I know if Evan was doing something he didn't want me to know about?"
"Guess."
She pursed her lips and composed herself. "My husband was many things, but I'm fairly sure that gay was not one of them."
"Do you think you would know if Evan was having an affair?"
"Yes."
"Would he have told you?"
She shook her head. "Not in so many words. But he would have let me know, dropped some not-so-subtle hints. He derived a strange kind of pleasure from things like that."
"You handled it differently?"
This time she nodded. "I don't particularly like to go out of my way to hurt people."
"So you never told Evan about your affairs."
"No."
"Did he know?"
She didn't answer right away. Then slowly, she said, "I think that two people who know each other well always know when secrets are being kept. They may not acknowledge them, and they may not know the specifics, but they know."
"Did he know about me? About you and me?"
"I don't think so."
"How about you and Kelley. Did he know about that?"
Again, she took a long time before answering. Then: "I think he might have, yes."
"But you don't know it for a fact?"
"No. But I would say that he did."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I'm not sure. Just… things he said. His tone. I overheard him while he was talking on the phone once… I wasn't even sure he was talking about me, but I think he knew."
"Abby, why did you say you think Kelley didn't kill Evan?"
"Because he's not smart enough."
"It doesn't take a lot of brains to kill somebody."
"Okay, he's not tough enough."
"He acts tough."
"You pegged it. It's an act. He can torture animals. People are different. They can fight back."
"They've got a witness who says Kelley told people you asked him to kill Evan."
She looked genuinely shocked. "That can't be! I would never- It's a lie! What witness?"
"I don't know; they didn't say. But they've got a pretty strong case against Kelley, at least that's what it sounds like. It's possible he'll roll and peg you as the one who planned the murder. That might get him murder two, or at least take the death penalty off the table."
Now Abby turned a shade paler. Not completely white, but a definite change in pallor. "But it's not true."
"A lot's going to depend on his lawyer. And how willing he is to deal."
Abigail's breathing came a little heavier now, a bit faster. She seemed to want to say something but suddenly didn't have the strength to say it.
"So who is tough enough to have killed Evan?" Justin asked quietly.
"You are," she said.
"Who else?"
"I am."
"You're not helping your cause," he said.
"H. R. is."
"Evan's father?" When Abby nodded, Justin said, "Do you think he did this?"
"No. But is he capable of it? Yes. If he had to. You didn't ask me who did it. You asked me who was capable of doing it."
Justin suddenly remembered the folded piece of paper in his pocket. He fished it out and unfolded it. Mike Haversham had gotten the info Justin had wanted. Ellis St. John had rented a car on Thursday afternoon, the day he disappeared and the night Evan Harmon was killed. Haversham had gotten the make-a blue Mustang convertible-and the license plate number. Justin made a mental note to thank Haversham when William Holden wasn't around. He reached for Abby's wrists again.
"Is Ellis St. John capable of murder?" he asked her.
"Oh god, no."
"Why not?"
"He's just"-she was unable to come up with the right words-"he's just not. Why would you even ask about him?"
"Because he's missing."
She looked confused. "Missing? You mean he's run away?"
"Or someone's taken him away. I haven't been able to find him."
"Does that have something to do with Evan?"
"I don't know. I think it might."
They were both silent for a moment. Justin knew that Holden wouldn't give him much more time.
"Abby, is there anything you know about Evan's murder? Anything you're not telling me?" he asked.
"No."
"If there is, tell me now."
"There isn't. I don't know a thing."
Now he slid his hands off her forearms, and her arms fell to her sides. Abigail swallowed. A hard swallow. "Do you want to know anything about Kelley?" she asked quietly. "I mean, about me and Kelley?"
"No." And when she looked at him curiously, he said, "That's personal. That can wait."
"This is business?"
"This is business."
"I think I'm going to need some help here, Jay."
"I think you are."
"Will you help me?" When he didn't answer, she said, "I didn't do it. I didn't do it, and I don't know anything about it."
Again, he didn't respond, sat stoically, not dismissing her claim, not embracing it. Just wondering if he could believe the woman standing next to him. And what the ramifications were if he decided he could.
Abby cocked her head, spoke as if she weren't the one whose life was on the line, as if she was genuinely curious about his decision, as if whatever he decided would tell her what she wanted to know about him. "Will you help me?"
"I'll find out what happened. Whatever it is, whoever it is, as long as you understand that."
"I understand," Abigail Harmon said. "Business, not personal."
"No," Justin Westwood told her. "This one's personal, too."
12
Li Ling was naked.
And she was always happy when she was naked.
Having no clothes on was freeing to her. It was like shedding an outer skin. Like discarding some final form of repression and restraint. Being unclothed was exhilarating to her.
Togo also wore no clothes. He was lying next to her on the bed, his perfect body half visible, half hidden by the tangled sheets. They had made love three times, and she knew she had exhausted him. Drained him. Even astonished him, after all this time. She was not drained, though, not yet. She watched him sleep, gently put her hand over his heart, felt his chest move up and down. She traced a silver-painted nail across his chest, shuddering with delight as she felt his smooth skin and the tautness of his muscles. She moved her hand between her own legs. Watching Togo sleep, she pleasured herself. Her expression didn't change. She barely moved, but she came quickly and suddenly and whatever tension remained in her body and her mind was now gone.
Ling swung her legs out of bed and in one motion was standing. She enjoyed the feeling of the rough carpet on her bare feet, took a moment to spread her toes and rub them against the coarse fiber. She walked across the room to where the man was sprawled. He, too, was naked but he was not feeling any pleasure. Ling didn't even know whether or not, at this point, he was even feeling pain. He was probably beyond feeling anything.
She nudged him with one toe, and his body moved ever so slightly. She stood above him, put her bare foot on his neck. She stayed still, feeling the faint pulse from his neck vibrate against her sole. The vibration seemed to pump life into her body. Her touch seemed to stir him, too; his eyes fluttered but she couldn't tell if he could see her. She hoped so.
She bent over, her foot pressing down a little harder on the neck, the pulse feeling stronger against her skin, and she jabbed her finger downward, one quick movement, and then the pulse was gone. She straightened up slowly, luxuriously, as if coming out of a bubble bath, enjoying the way her spine curved upward, one vertebra at a time until she was upright and rigid. She jostled the man with her toes, but this time there was no movement, no fluttering of the eyes.
The man's name had been Ronald LaSalle. It was a meaningless name to her, a meaningless life. She did not know why his words had been important nor did she care. She cared only that he had talk
ed, as she knew he would. And that he had told the truth, which there was no doubt he had. He had, very quickly, told them what they had been required to find out. There had been no need to put him through the agony he had endured before he died.
But sometimes, Ling understood, one did not do things strictly from need.
And with that, she smiled and went back to the bed. She stood on the mattress, her weight barely making an indentation, and this time she put her foot on Togo's neck. When his eyes slowly opened, he saw her standing above him in the position of power and dominance. He did not change his expression, but she saw that he instantly grew hard.
"We have time to make love one more time," she told him. She nodded toward the body of Ronald LaSalle. "And then we must finish our job."
His head moved, a slight nod, she could feel the movement under her foot. She clenched it slightly, gripping his neck with her toes, and she wondered when the day would come when Togo, too, would be as helpless and powerless as the dead man on the other side of the room.
She watched as he finally smiled up at her. She smiled, too, and then she dropped down next to him, straddled him, clenched her legs against his sides as tightly as she could squeeze. She leaned over, her bare breasts lightly grazing his smooth chest.
They made love once again while she thought of life, and the joy it brought, and of death, and the exquisite pleasures that could bring as well.
And she thought of the fact that because of what this man, Ronald LaSalle, had told them, she and Togo now had more work to do.
And sometimes work could be the best thing of all.
13
At 9 P.M., Justin was slouched in his living room on Division Street. The news vans and reporters had disappeared, as had a quarter of a bottle of Jack Daniel's and two bottles of Pete's Wicked Ale. The reporters had given up and stopped loitering around his property about forty-five minutes earlier. The JD and brew were still available. Justin was trying to decide now whether or not to go for a third bottle of Pete's.
He'd been online and seen the way Evan's murder was being treated, so he was prepared for the onslaught of publicity that was sure to break the next morning. AOL news, running a story from the Associated Press, was playing it up big. The assumption was that Abigail had set up her two lovers to murder her husband, and that was made clear by the headline: threesome not enough for millionaire murderess. The story went on to detail her affair with Kelley: how he had been hired as a contractor to redo part of the Harmon mansion-that was clearly the official description of the home from now on, "the Harmon mansion"-and how Abby had gradually succumbed to Kelley's charms. Justin learned details he had not been privy to, some relevant to the case against Kelley and Abby, some not. Kelley had worked on the house for the better part of a year. The job was supposed to take four months but had stretched to twelve. Abby was receiving credit for the extension; the story said that Evan had wanted Kelley to stop working, but that his wife kept finding more and more for him to do. The AP made it sound as if the extra work was sexual. Justin supposed that was possible, but he also knew that contractors had a way of overstaying their welcome. It was their nature. Start one job, get money up front, get partway through the work, take on another job with more money up front, spend less and less time finishing up the original job as the back-end money becomes less and less important. He dismissed the idea of Abby keeping Kelley around for sexual purposes. It didn't make sense. If she wanted to have an affair, she wouldn't want him hanging around her home. She'd want Kelley close by but separate-just the way she'd had with him.
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