by Lis Wiehl
“Okay, on your backs, everyone, fingertips on either side of your head. Abs in.” Elizabeth lifted her hands, fingers spread, to demonstrate, revealing a slice of her flat belly. Then she shot her arms out, punching the air with fingers straight, miming legs. “The legs go in and out. Don’t forget to breathe. And we’re on our way to 100. One, two, three . . .”
Cassidy complied, although curled up from the floor as she was, her chin kept getting stuck in her cleavage. Which was all hers, no matter what the viewers who left stupid comments on Channel Four’s website said.
By the time the hour was finished, Cassidy wanted to die. Or possibly she already had, although she had thought that when you were dead you were beyond the reach of pain. She lay on her back, spent, and felt the sweat run into her ears. Around her, women picked up their mats and gathered their things.
She couldn’t move. She couldn’t even twitch.
Then a hand entered her line of vision. Cassidy managed to look up without moving any other muscle in her body. With a groan she raised her own hand and Elizabeth, smiling, pulled her to her feet.
Even though Elizabeth had done most of the exercises right along with the class, not a drop of sweat darkened her color-coordinated outfit. “Did you survive?” she asked as she wiped off Cassidy’s mat and hung it on the wall.
Cassidy managed a smile, although she guessed it looked as fake as it felt. “Barely.”
“So, Cassidy, what do you do when you’re not donkey kicking?”
Cassidy was taken aback. Her face was on billboards along I-5 and I-84. Granted, it was just one of four faces, but still. She hoped that it was just that dressed down, she was somewhat incognito. “I’m a TV crime reporter.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “For which channel?”
“Channel Four.”
Elizabeth seemed to be doing a rapid calculation. “Oh, that’s where I’ve seen you. And you’re even prettier in person. I guess it’s true what they say about the camera adding ten pounds.”
Cassidy forced a smile.
“Want to grab a cup of coffee or something to eat?” Elizabeth asked. “My treat.”
Cassidy looked at her watch. The morning story meeting wasn’t for another hour and a half. She guessed that was the bright side of getting up before the sun. “Sure, I’d love that. Just let me take a quick shower, and I’ll meet you in the café.”
Ten minutes later Cassidy let her teeth sink into a buttered bagel. After all that exercise, she could afford it.
Elizabeth was only drinking a cup of Earl Grey tea. Pulling her tea bag from the water, she said, “Too bad they don’t have loose tea here.”
“Why?”
“When I was a kid, I learned how to read tea leaves.”
“Cool!” Cassidy had been to a psychic, had her palms and her aura read, and checked her horoscope every day. She thought of it as getting a leg up on the future. “About the only thing I learned when I was a kid was how to hide the school cafeteria spinach in my milk carton. Did you grow up here?”
Elizabeth waved one hand. “Oh, here, there, and everywhere. My mom was kind of a free spirit.”
“And your dad?”
“Have you heard of—” And Elizabeth named a famous rocker who had made a name for himself in the early seventies. When Cassidy nodded—who hadn’t heard of him, even if he looked more like a lizard every year—Elizabeth said, “I don’t tell many people, but that’s my dad.”
“Your dad?” The guy, as far as Cassidy knew, had never been married.
Elizabeth shrugged. “One-night stand with my mom after a concert. But he was always good about paying child support.”
“Do you ever spend any time with him?”
“Now and then.” Elizabeth smiled, a little mysteriously, which whetted Cassidy’s appetite even further. Elizabeth could probably tell a million stories about the rich and famous people her father hung out with.
Normally, Cassidy would have been jealous of someone like Elizabeth, with her perfect body, flawless complexion, and fascinating past. But it didn’t feel like they were competing.
Instead, it felt like Cassidy had met some missing piece of herself.
CHAPTER 9
Portland Fitness Center
Elizabeth sipped her tea, noting the slight shine on Cassidy’s upper lip where she had bitten into her buttered bagel too enthusiastically. She had been terrible in boot camp, not pushing herself at all, but Elizabeth was willing to overlook that.
For now.
“How long have you been teaching here?” Cassidy asked.
“About nine months.” Elizabeth had started out as just a patron. A patron who wanted to look good. Having a great-looking body made everything so much easier. As a bonus, the gym attracted a lot of rich, divorced men from Portland’s West Hills.
Then one day the guy who taught the sculpting class was sick. Elizabeth volunteered to fill in—and did such an outstanding job that she was asked to replace the teacher. Of course, it didn’t hurt that she dropped a few hints to the manager about the original teacher’s occasionally slurred words and erratic behavior.
And Elizabeth had even taught at health clubs before. At least that’s what it said on her resume.
The resume was a work of art. It listed jobs she had never held at health clubs that never existed, promotions that had never happened, professional memberships in nonexistent organizations, awards she had never received, and a fake degree. Accompanying it were letters of recommendation she had written herself.
Personal trainer was just Elizabeth’s latest incarnation. For a few years she had been a graduate student who managed to qualify for generous scholarships by lying on her application, cheating on tests, and finding others who were willing, even anxious, to write her papers. After an unfortunate occurrence with a provost, she had been forced to leave school.
For a few years she had been a rich man’s mistress. Donald Dunbar, who was heir to a family fortune, liked to surround himself with fine things. He leased a condo and a new Lexus for her, and furnished the condo in the quietly moneyed style he expected to be surrounded by. He even bought Elizabeth a fur coat, which was anathema in the relatively warm and more than relatively progressive Portland. Don taught her how to dress, how to appreciate quality in everything from liquor to tailoring, and how to shoot his extensive arsenal of guns. He’d died while they were on safari in Africa, leaving his wife a multimillion dollar estate and Elizabeth nothing but the things he had kept at the condo and the gifts he had bought her. But after a frank talk in which Elizabeth was forced to spell out just how much damage she could do to the dead man’s reputation, Don’s widow had offered to reimburse her for her time and energy.
During the boom years, when houses were on the market for less than a day, Elizabeth had reinvented herself as a real estate agent. She steered clients to bigger and bigger houses—which meant bigger and bigger commissions—and to mortgage lenders who didn’t ask too many questions and who were willing to kick back a little something to her for her business.
But when the bottom fell out of the market, Elizabeth had to remake herself yet again. It wasn’t too hard. All it took was a little imagination. She couldn’t fathom why people would wait their turn or work hard for things they wanted, not when it was easy enough to find a shortcut.
The owners of the Portland Fitness Center—part of a small local chain—were thrilled to have her on staff. As were most of the students. Most, but not all. Certain people tended to drop out over time—the chubby, the clumsy, the ones who couldn’t take a joke. The ones she had no use for.
Telling people what to do was a good fit for Elizabeth. And rotating among the chain’s three clubs gave her the chance to meet a wide variety of people and gain power over the ones she chose to single out.
In her head, Elizabeth called what she did “The Game.”
The rules were simple: to pretend to be whatever someone else needed until they gave you whatever you needed. After that, there w
ere no rules. The Game was fair, at least to Elizabeth’s way of thinking. Anyone could play it. In fact, she was sure most people were playing it; they just didn’t like to admit it. Sure, there were a few losers and idiots, suckers who, for whatever reason, didn’t mind getting played. And some people were so weak that they played poorly, basically inviting anyone to take advantage of them.
Living with Grandma had taught Elizabeth the basic rules. At Grandma’s she had learned that you were either a giver or a taker, predator or prey.
And Cassidy Shaw had all the hallmarks of prey. The corners of her mouth turned up any time Elizabeth praised her job, her highlights, her French manicure. And turned down any time Elizabeth mentioned calories, age, looks, or career advancement.
Elizabeth had a gift. Within a few minutes of meeting people, she could identify what they liked least about themselves. Did they think they were too shy, too fat, too ugly? She knew. If it was worth her while she then pretended to accept them exactly as they were: shy, fat, poor, bulimic, whatever. Even if they disgusted her. To deepen the bond, she would reveal that she secretly shared the same flaw as her newfound friend.
She could be whatever anyone needed. Patriotic or prissy. Worldly or naïve. Strong, if someone longed to be dominated. Submissive, if they wanted to dominate. She might pose as a celebrity, a suffering artist, a misunderstood spouse. Sometimes her lies came so easily that she almost believed them herself as she heard them come out of her mouth.
Elizabeth adjusted her message to match whatever she saw in the recipient’s face, read in the body. The feedback allowed her to build and maintain control—at least until she was done. Or bored. Her most recent best friend had lasted just long enough to cosign the loan for Elizabeth’s new car.
All Elizabeth had to do was to give people what they longed for. Or pretend to give it to them, which was basically the same thing. After that it was like the Latin saying Elizabeth had learned at the Spurling Institute—quid pro quo. A trade. For as long as she needed them, she offered people acceptance, love, understanding. And in turn, people gave her what she needed. Money. Power. Sex. Secrets. Admiration. Thrills.
Now Elizabeth tried out another topic, like a fisherman casting a new lure into the water. Leaning closer to Cassidy, she whispered, “How come if this is a health club, the men all look so schlumpy?” She cut her eyes to two guys drinking coffee a few tables away. One man’s shorts and sweat-stained T-shirt were accented with black socks and brown shoes. His friend had a comb-over that consisted of about five extremely long strands of hair curled in a spiral.
“Men,” Cassidy said with a shrug.
But Elizabeth caught the shadow that crossed her face. She gave her imaginary line a tug. “I’ve had terrible luck with men. Sometimes I think that all men are just, just . . .”
“Users?” Cassidy supplied.
“Exactly.” Hook, line, and sinker. Elizabeth took a sip of her tea. “What about you? You can’t be single, can you?”
“My last boyfriend—well, he had some issues. And he took them out on me.”
Elizabeth bit her lip. “I dated someone like that.” She hadn’t, of course, but she trusted her mouth to come up with the right words even before her mind knew what they were. “He seemed to think he wasn’t abusive if he didn’t leave actual bruises. Instead he just did a number on my self-esteem.”
Cassidy’s next words came in a rush. “Once Rick pulled a gun on me.” She put her hand over her mouth, looking surprised.
Around Elizabeth, people readily offered up their secrets.
“Yeah, like that made him some big man.” Elizabeth snorted.
“I sprayed bathroom cleaner in his eyes.”
“Good for you!” Elizabeth made a mental note. Maybe this one wasn’t as weak as she looked.
Cassidy looked around, leaned closer. “I don’t tell too many people the details.”
The first part of The Game was to win the other person’s trust. But you didn’t really win until he or she was willing to give you whatever you needed.
Elizabeth continued to exchange stories with Cassidy, only hers were just that: stories. She didn’t tell her new friend about Ian. Let her think they had loneliness in common.
As she wove her web, Elizabeth thought that Cassidy offered so many possibilities. Her clothes were expensive, so she probably had money. And she seemed to know everyone, name-dropping like crazy. My old boyfriend, the radio host. My pal, the mayor. My good friend, the federal prosecutor. My other good friend, the FBI agent.
Elizabeth didn’t like the sound of those last two. She’d seen prosecutors and even FBI agents up close. They were the enemy. They only existed to entrap people. They didn’t understand that sometimes you were forced to do something distasteful. That it was a matter of self-defense. She filed their names away. Allison Pierce and Nicole Hedges.
She couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow them to get in the way of her playing The Game.
CHAPTER 10
Mark O. Hatfield Federal Courthouse
Colton Foley had been arrested six days ago. Two days later he had gone before a judge. Declaring Foley both a flight risk and a possible risk to the community, the judge had denied bail. Now Allison had only a little more than three weeks to give a grand jury cause to indict him for the crimes attributed to the man the media had dubbed “The Want Ad Killer.”
The judge had signed Foley’s arrest warrant after Allison showed him several pieces of evidence. The first were surveillance videos taken in hotels where the three women had been found murdered. Each showed a dark-haired man wearing a baseball cap and a navy-blue Columbia jacket walking down a hotel corridor or through a hotel lobby. The second came from an Internet service provider that had tracked an e-mail sent to one victim back to Foley’s seven-story condo building. And the third was a videotape the FBI had secretly made, beginning at dawn the day before, of every man who entered or exited that building. The videotape showed a man with the same color hair, the same physique, the same gait, and even what appeared to be the same Columbia jacket, walking out of the building and then getting into a car registered to Foley. Of course, Colton Foley wasn’t the only five-foot-eleven guy with brown hair who lived in the condominiums. The clincher was an e-mail the victim had sent to a friend shortly before she died. In it, she had said her next client was a med student.
But Colton Foley was no dummy, and neither was his lawyer, Michael Stone. So Allison had to move carefully and make sure the case was airtight.
Mike Stone was Portland’s premier lawyer—if you were in deep, deep trouble. He took on clients other lawyers avoided—swim team coaches accused of child molestation, surgeons who had operated while three sheets to the wind, bank presidents caught embezzling millions.
When you were in the fight of your life or your career, Stone was the guy you wanted sitting at the defense table. If you could pay his steep fees, you got the slickest lawyer in town, one who always had an ace—or two or three—up his hand-tailored sleeve.
Foley’s parents certainly didn’t have the money. His mother was a cashier, his father a TriMet bus driver. But the med student did have a great-aunt who had plenty of money and who was sure that “dear Colton could never have done these terrible things.”
Just being defended by Stone was a sure sign that you were involved in something embarrassing or off-putting. But if you were one of the people who came to him, then you couldn’t afford to be choosy. Couldn’t afford not to pay his high fees. Because otherwise Stone would be more than happy to leave you to the services of a public defender.
Allison checked her watch. 11:58. Getting up, she turned on the small TV in her office to Channel Four. Cassidy had told her that Stone had announced plans to hold a press conference at eleven. The media-savvy Stone had picked a time that would ensure it would get the most play. Most stations wouldn’t risk a live news conference in case it turned out to be filled with nothing but hot air, but the eleven o’clock time frame allowed them just enough time to
film and edit a two-minute segment.
Allison would never have gone—it would show weakness—but she would watch all the coverage and order transcripts. The catnip Stone had offered the media was Foley’s fiancée. Until now, she had been in hiding. Stone had promised that she had something important to reveal to the press.
After briefly running through the day’s top national and local stories—flooding in Ohio, a child left stranded on a MAX rail platform, a tease about the week’s weather—the news anchor cut away to Mike Stone standing in front of a bank of microphones in what looked like a hotel conference room.
In ringing tones, Stone said, “My client, Colton Foley, is not guilty of these ridiculous trumped-up charges. I am confident that at the end of the day, given the facts of this case, the lack of evidence, and the faulty investigation, my client will be freed. Colton has the full support of his family, his friends, and his fiancée, Zoe Barrett, who is with me here today. I have not received any document or report or piece of evidence other than what I heard in the courtroom. All I have at the moment are words—no proof of anything.”
Seeing as how Stone’s clients literally lived and died by words, Allison found it grimly amusing that he dismissed them so blithely. But it was true that they needed more evidence to convict Foley. The search of the condo that he shared with his fiancée had turned up a roll of duct tape and a single pair of plastic flex-cuff restraints—no gun or weapon, and nothing from any of the victims.
Stone continued, “The police completely searched my client’s condominium but found absolutely nothing of any significance. A roll of duct tape? Heck, if that’s all it takes to be guilty of these crimes, 75 percent of Portlanders could be indicted.”
A few of the reporters laughed.
“And as for the plastic handcuffs, Zoe has a few words she would like to say.”
The young woman, her eyes downcast so that her shoulder-length blonde hair obscured her face, stepped to the microphone. “This is very embarrassing for me to say, but Colton and I sometimes used those plastic restraints to play games.” She exhaled, and the microphone caught how her breath wobbled. “They were my idea. Of course, I had no idea that my personal and private life would have to go on display to right this travesty of justice. I love Colton and will continue to stand by him until he is freed and we can resume our wonderful life together.”
