The Betrayed

by David Hosp

  As she drove, she let her mind wander aimlessly through the events of the past week, eager to free her mind from the constraints of rational evaluation and find clarity in her unfocused emotions and impressions. As the mile markers flashed by in greater and greater numbers between exits, she began to feel fortunate in a perverse way. She’d spent years waiting for her life to begin, waiting for something of import to happen that would signal that her existence had purpose and meaning and direction. Sometimes, she thought, security and routine are fulfillment’s greatest enemy, lulling us into a patterned stupor that obscures the reality that time slips away faster than we can fathom. It is often only the catastrophic events of our lives that rattle us from complacency and free us to take a good look around to see the importance of things so easily taken for granted: the connections of family; the strength that comes from being relied upon; the excitement of a new romance (even one only beginning to take root).

  As she pulled up the long, tree-lined drive, she looked up at the bright blue sign that hung from the stone pillars guarding the entrance to the grounds. “The Virginia Juvenile Institute for Mental Health,” it read. The Institute, Barneton had called it.

  From the look of the buildings and surrounding fields, it could have been a second-rate boarding school, with its clusters of red-brick structures gapped by swaths of green common. All that seemed missing was a horde of students rushing across the campus to classes or activities or athletics. But here, it seemed, the residents had little for which to hurry.

  As she pulled into a parking space in the lot near the main building, she wondered what could have happened in this place that had caused her sister to make the five-hour trek— and from here to Professor Barneton’s office. Looking at the quiet, lonely campus, she was convinced now that she had wasted her own time as well, that there could be nothing important she could learn there.

  She sighed as she actually considered throwing the car into reverse and heading back to the city. Still, she thought, she’d made the trip already, so she might as well satisfy her curiosity. But she couldn’t imagine what had brought her sister all the way out here. After a moment’s hesitation, she made up her mind, got out of her car, and walked up the front steps of the main building.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  CASSIAN COULDN’T WAIT to confront Leighton Creay. Ever since Sydney had described how he’d raped his wife, Cassian had been itching for any excuse to get in the man’s face. With any luck, he thought, Creay might be stupid enough to give them cause to arrest him—maybe even resist a little, so Cassian could give him a quick shot or two to punctuate his disgust.

  He walked through the door marked “Members’ Lounge” with Train directly on his heels. It was eleven-thirty on a Thursday morning, and the room was predictably quiet, with only two people there. One was the bartender, in his early twenties, leaning idly behind an enormous oak bar, wearing a stiff white collared shirt with a black bow tie. The second was a man who looked like he could be in his early fifties, with thick blond hair graying at the temples, leaning over a table at the far end of the room, reading a newspaper.

  “Can I help you?” the bartender asked, looking away briefly from the SportsCenter that was looping on the plasma television above the bar. It was clear from his demeanor that he knew neither Cassian nor Train were members, and therefore spared them the obsequiousness demanded by some of those who belonged to the club. His voice was more curious than condescending, though, and carried none of the self-righteousness they had witnessed in the club manager’s initial greeting.

  Cassian walked over to the bar and took out his badge, flipping it open but shielding it from the view of the man at the far end of the room. The blond-gray man hadn’t even looked up. “We’re looking for Leighton Creay,” Cassian told the bartender quietly. “Your boss told us we could find him in here.” He flipped his head over in the direction of the man at the table. “That him?”

  The bartender nodded and gave a half-smile that conveyed his amusement—though not necessarily his surprise—at the notion that Creay might have a problem with the law. Cassian nodded back at the bartender and took out a ten-dollar bill, sliding it across the bar. “Thanks,” he said. “We may need to talk to you a little later, if that’s all right.”

  The bartender pocketed the cash. “Always willing to do my civic duty.”

  Cassian looked at Train and motioned him over to the table at the far end of the room. The man sitting there didn’t move as the two detectives approached him. “Leighton Creay?” Cassian asked.

  “Yeah,” the man said, still without altering his position or deigning to look at the two policemen.

  “We’d like to talk to you about your ex-wife.”

  Creay’s body stiffened, but he kept his nose buried in his newspaper. “So talk,” he said, his voice betraying his defensiveness.

  Cassian was silent for a moment, hovering over the table with Train close behind him, letting Creay feel the impact of his presence. “Did you know she was killed?”

  Creay finally pulled his eyes off the newsprint in front of him and looked up at Cassian. His eyes were dull green and angry. “Of course,” he said. “I read the paper.” He waggled a corner of the section he was reading for emphasis. Cassian was tempted to punch him right then and there, but he knew it wouldn’t be productive. Still, it took a moment for him to harness the hatred he’d already developed for the man. During that pause, Creay frowned. “You cops, or did Lydia send you?”

  “Cops,” Train replied sharply.

  “Prove it.” Creay’s eyes never left Train’s. Train’s face broke into a broad, malevolent smile. He reached into his pocket and drew out his badge, which he carried in a leather billfold. He tossed it on the table, where it landed with a loud thud. Creay eyed it suspiciously, then leaned over, touching one corner of the worn leather as though it carried a pestilence and flipping it open on the table to reveal the badge and Train’s identification. “Darius Train,” Creay read aloud. “Catchy name. You Irish?”

  The smile faded from Train’s face, and Creay held his hands up as if he expected to be hit. Then he looked at Cassian. “I suppose you’ve got one of these, too?” he asked.

  “Similar,” Cassian replied. “Picture’s not as pretty, and the name’s different—Cassian.” He took out his badge and held it up without showing it. “You wanna take a look?” There was a challenge in his voice.

  Creay considered the offer, visibly evaluating Cassian’s level of overt hostility. He shook his head. “That’s all right, I’ll take your word for it.” The man’s instinct for self-preservation wasn’t totally lacking, Cassian noted.

  “Mind if we sit down with you for a couple of minutes?” Cassian asked, swinging his leg over the back of one of the chairs and taking a seat. “You know, just to shoot the shit a little?”

  “As long as you don’t consider me the shit, I guess that’s fine.” He waved a hand toward one of the other chairs, inviting Train to sit down.

  Cassian laughed in spite of himself. “Let’s see how it goes,” he said. “No promises.” He waited for Train to sit down. The huge detective pulled a seat close to Creay, so that the two of them flanked him.

  “You guys sure you don’t want to just sit on my lap?” Creay asked.

  “We didn’t see you at your wife’s funeral,” Cassian said, ignoring Creay’s quip.

  “Ex-wife,” Creay pointed out. “Elizabeth and I ...weren’t close. Not since the divorce, anyway.”

  “Don’t you mean before your divorce?” Cassian asked. “You meant to say that you weren’t close since before your divorce, right? I’m guessing at least not since the night you raped her.”

  Creay looked back and forth between the two detectives. “I see you’ve been talking to Lydia.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you clearly have the wrong idea about me already.” He sighed heavily, as though he’d spent his life oppressed. “Look, like it or not, my ex-wife was a l
ying bitch who tried to destroy my reputation by making up stories about me. If you think I should have gone to pay my last respects to a person like that, well then, we’re just going to have to disagree. It’s a pity she’s dead, I suppose, but I don’t really give a shit.”

  “Stories,” Cassian said, considering the word. “Stories can certainly do a man’s reputation some damage. Particularly when his daughter tells the same version of the stories.”

  “Kids are impressionable.” Creay shrugged, although he looked wounded momentarily.

  “You keep in touch with Amanda?” Cassian asked. It sounded rhetorical.

  Creay shook his head. “My ex-wife—the woman you’re so concerned about—turned her against me. She won’t see me anymore.”

  Train let a low, slow whistle escape his lips. “That’s no good. Can’t imagine what I might do to my ex if she turned my daughter against me. And that on top of lying about me? Trying to ruin my reputation?” He raised his eyebrows. “You better believe that with all that, you just never know what even a reasonable man might do, do you?”

  Creay glared at Train, his anger visible, though under control. “Yeah, well maybe you’ve just got a more volatile temperament than some men, Detective.”

  “Could be.” Train nodded slowly. “What about you, Leighton? What’s your temper like? You willing to let some— what did you call her? lying bitch?—do that kind of damage to you and get away with it without paying a price?”

  Creay crossed his arms defiantly. “Listen, Detectives, I’m a little busy here,” he said, nodding down at the newspaper spread out on the table. “If you’ve got anything you really want to ask me, you can go right ahead, but this psycho-cop-mindfuck you’re getting into is just a little boring, okay?”

  Cassian chuckled. He could feel his animosity toward Leighton Creay growing as he remembered the picture Sydney had painted of the man raping her sister. He looked closely at Creay, examining the lines on his face. He originally had estimated him to be in his early fifties, but up close he could tell he’d been wrong. Mid-forties seemed more likely, though it was clear that the mileage had taken its toll. “You’re a pretty tough guy, aren’t you, Leighton?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Fine, let’s start by finding out where you were last Wednesday afternoon.”

  “What time?” Leighton inquired.

  “Thought you read the paper, Leighton. I’m surprised you didn’t find that in the articles about your ex’s murder.”

  “I focus primarily on the financial section.”

  Cassian stared right through the man. “Between two-thirty and four,” he said at last.

  “I was here,” Creay said. “Well, not actually ‘here’ as in ‘at this table,’ but I was here at the club. I was playing golf.”

  “You got anyone who can corroborate that?”

  “Yeah, I do. Three people—all the guys in my foursome, including Bill Whitledge, the club’s pro. Three of us chipped in and got a playing lesson.”

  Cassian jotted down the name in his notebook. “Who were the other two?” he asked.

  “Cy Badlichuk and Dan Klines.” He flipped a page on the paper he’d been reading. “Is that all you need?” he asked. “Because I’ve really got to get back to work here.”

  Cassian looked over at the paper, and then peered under the table and around the empty room. “What is it that you do, Leighton?” he asked. “I mean, you’re sitting here in a country club before noon on a Thursday reading a newspaper. I don’t see a computer; I don’t see a briefcase; I don’t see a cell phone. So I’m wondering to myself, just what kind of ‘work’ it is that you’ve got to get back to.”

  “I’m a consultant,” Creay said a little too defensively. “And my cell phone is in my locker. We’re not allowed to use them inside the clubhouse.”

  “Ah, well, that explains a lot, I guess,” Cassian said sarcastically. “What kind of consulting is it that you do?”

  “Financial consulting.”

  “You wanna be a little more specific?” Train growled.

  “Not really, no,” Creay snapped back. He and Train squared off momentarily in a staring contest, but Creay clearly realized quickly that he would lose. He relented. “For some clients, I advise them on the stock market—specific issues, more general trends, the works. With some clients, I’m called in to do a financial evaluation of a company that they’re looking into acquiring. It can be any number of things, really.”

  “Sounds impressive,” Train said. “How’s business these days?” He pointed toward the paper. “You don’t look too busy.”

  “Looks can be deceiving, Detective,” Creay cracked. “I have to follow the news very closely in order to do my job effectively. I’m doing fine, though your concern for my well-being is heartwarming.”

  “You really sure you’re doing okay?” Cassian pressed.

  Creay gave an exasperated sigh. “Yes, Detective Cassian, I’m doing fine. You needn’t trouble yourself worrying about my financial future.”

  Cassian shrugged. “Okay, Leighton, if you say so. But here’s the thing: we stopped by your place earlier, before we came out here to see if we could find you. We knocked on the door, rang the doorbell—even looked through the windows to see if you were there. And do you know what we saw, Leighton?”

  “I’m all ears,” shot Creay.

  Cassian gave an angry grin. “How would you describe what we saw, Detective Train?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Train said contemplatively. “A shithole? Yeah, that’s probably the best way I could describe it. An absolute fucking shithole.”

  “Right,” said Cassian. “Good description. I was having trouble coming up with the right words, but ‘shithole’ pretty much sums it up. So I’m wondering now, if things are going so well, why is it that you’re living like you get your meals at a soup kitchen?”

  Creay didn’t flinch, but his face was two shades paler. He looked back and forth between the two detectives. Finally he said, “I’m in the market for something new at the moment, if you must know. Until I find the right housing opportunity, there’s no point in wasting my money on rent—there’s no equity in it.”

  “In the market for something new,” Cassian repeated. “You hear that, Sarge, he’s looking for a new place as we speak.” He looked back at Creay. “You know, I’m glad we found you out here, ’cause I’ve been thinking about moving out to this area myself. I’d be looking for a smaller space, obviously—being used to the city and all—but I’m guessing we’ve got similar tastes. Why don’t you give me the name of the real estate agent you’re working with? That’d be a huge help to me.”

  Creay’s face was stone. “I haven’t chosen one yet, Detective. I thought I’d do some looking around on my own first and get a sense for what was out there.”

  Cassian stared straight at Creay, his eyes penetrating the man’s façade. He knew he was lying. “Well, shit, yeah, I guess that makes sense. Gotta figure out what’s out there, huh? That make sense to you, Sarge?”

  “Makes perfect sense to me.”

  “Yeah, me too. But you be sure to tell me once you’ve decided who you’re going to use, okay? I want to know the minute you make your choice.”

  “You’ll be the first person I call, Detective,” Creay said. “Are we done?”

  “Almost. I have one last question,” Cassian said. “When we first got here, you asked whether we were cops, or whether Lydia sent us. I’m assuming by ‘Lydia’ you were referring to Mrs. Chapin, right? So, I’m wondering why you think Lydia Chapin would have sent people like me and Detective Train here out to talk to you?”

  Creay continued staring at Cassian. Then he folded his newspaper, gathering it up as he stood. “Gentlemen,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure. If you have any further questions, let me know, and I’ll have my attorney get in touch with you.” Then, without another word, he walked out of the room.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  SYDNEY CHAPIN SAT in the comfortable office of Dr. Al
dus Mayer, MD and PhD, superintendent at the Institute. It was pleasantly decorated in what cutting-edge interior designers would mockingly call the “traditional” style. The desk chair on which he perched was leather-backed and wood-framed, and complemented the sturdy oak desk that took up much of the room. Sydney sat in one of the wooden university chairs that faced the desk.

  “I’m very sorry about your sister,” Dr. Mayer was saying. “I must say, when I first contemplated the notion of moving to a facility in an area as rural as this, I was petrified at all I’d be missing compared to a more lively, metropolitan region. But then I hear stories like this, and I thank God that I escaped all the madness of urban life.” He used the word “madness” without a trace of irony. “That said, I’m not sure exactly how we can help you.”

  Sydney took the measure of the man in front of her. He was small and thin, with narrow shoulders and a sharp, nervous face. He looked every bit the midlevel medical bureaucrat that he’d clearly become in his role as superintendent. And yet, in spite of his outward appearance, his manner and voice had a calming effect, and Sydney sensed that underneath his governmental façade there was a genuine and caring doctor. “I’m not sure how you can help me, either,” she admitted. “I guess all I really want is to talk to whoever my sister met with when she was out here.”

  “Yes, I talked with her briefly, and I know she met with Drs. Zorn and Golden. I’ve sent for both of them, and you’re welcome to chat with them, but I’m still not clear why this is so important. You can’t really imagine that her visit here had anything to do with her murder in Washington, can you?”