Rough Justice raa-5

by Lisa Scottoline

  Marta peered at the map under the flashlight's beam, looking around the Barnegat Light area for a pen or pencil mark. Any kind of sign that would show where Steere had buried something. She saw nothing. She bent closer, her nose almost an inch from the map. Still nothing. She even thought back to what she knew the beachfront looked like. She couldn't remember a marker or sign. It was a normal beachfront.

  Fuck. Marta sat back up on her haunches. It had to be here. She was running out of time. Maybe it was the way she was looking at the map. She held it up close to her face and shined the light on it.

  Suddenly something flashed in her peripheral vision. A little lick of light. What was that? Marta held the flashlight and looked over the top of map as she shined it. A tiny dot of light appeared on the deck of the boat. What? How?

  She squinted behind the map. A minuscule tunnel of yellow pierced the map and came out the other side. It was right near Steere's house, on the shore. Marta followed the light beam back to the map. There was the smallest of pinholes in the map. The flashlight's beam shone through like a break in the clouds.

  Marta flipped the map over and touched the pinhole gently. It felt softly ragged, a tiny pinprick. This was it. It couldn't have been a mistake or coincidence. Marta had found the X, at least as much of an X as Steere would give. Her heart thudded with anticipation.

  She flipped the map over again. The pinhole was about a centimeter from the shoreline. She looked at the scale. 1:40,000 nautical miles. There was something called statute miles, and yards. Not much of an X, but it was all she had. Marta would have to calculate the spot's location. It was either that or dig up New Jersey.

  41

  Jen Pressman had managed to escape the mayor and was finally in a car. A municipal-issue Crown Victoria, it had no snow tires, and she had to drive slowly on the city streets. Broad Street and Philadelphia's other main arteries had been plowed once, but it was slow going once she left them. Jen couldn't drive fast anyway. The migraine was teasing her and she still felt sick to her stomach. Bright snow bombarded her eyes and her vision went in and out of focus. The Imitrex was keeping her migraine at bay, but intense pain lingered at the edges of her brain like a stage villain waiting in the wings.

  Jen reached the expressway with difficulty. There was no traffic on the road because of the mayor's ban. If a cop tried to stop her, she'd flash her City Hall ID and he'd let her pass. The job had catapulted Jen's career into another zone entirely. If the mayor won reelection, she'd wait a decent interval to quit, then sell herself as a partner to the law firm with the highest bid. She'd hired most of the mayor's staff, which would come in handy when she came back to lobby on a client's behalf. The beauty part was that it worked even if the mayor lost the election. Either way, she was covered. Like Switzerland.

  Jen fed the car more gas. Her headlights made two bright tunnels down the snowy highway. Streetlights and snow seared into her brain. The white spots at the back of her head burned whiter and brighter. Jen considered pulling over but she couldn't. It was so damn late. If she stopped now she'd fall asleep in the car and maybe freeze by the roadside.

  The car floated sideways toward the cement median, so Jen backed off the gas. Snow flew at her windshield, each flake a dot that grew bigger as it got closer. It reminded Jen of a foul ball that hit her at a Phillies game, as she sat with the city solicitor's staff behind third base. Jen had seen the ball as it flew, spinning in an are right toward her, its red stitching going round and round. She had put her hands up too late to catch it. The hard ball hit her finger and bent it back, fracturing it. She had to sign a release saying she wouldn't sue the stadium or the city. The city solicitor had laughed her ass off.

  Jen stared out the windshield as she drove. It was getting harder and harder to see. The snow blew hard as balls being thrown at her. Hundreds of them, then thousands. Jen had been dodging them her whole life, in secret. Trying to drive between them, trying to get beyond them.

  The car barreled ahead in the snow. Whiteness was everywhere, on the windshield and the road, covering buildings beside the expressway. There was no other car in sight or any form of life. It seemed so bright even though it was night. Jen fumbled for her sunglasses in the console but they weren't there. It wasn't her regular car since she hadn't been able to find her purse with her car keys. She'd had to borrow another car from the municipal car pool.

  Suddenly there was hot white light at the back of her eyeballs. Behind her eyes, in the center of her brain. Her headache flared into brightness and flames. Jen blinked to clear her vision but all she saw was a hot, molten core. She hit the brakes but the car kept moving straight, then sideways. She couldn't see anything but white hot light. The car rolled over and over until it smashed into the concrete median. Jen felt nothing but agony, saw nothing but light. And in the split second before she died, she felt released.

  42

  Judy was trying to concentrate on Darning's white notebook, but anxiety kept getting the best of her. Would Mary be all right? She picked at the bandage on her hand. Who shot Mary and why? Would they be coming after her next?

  Judy glanced around her empty apartment for the twentieth time. It was quiet except for the plastic clicking of her Kit-Kat clock as its round eyes darted this way and that. Snow fell steadily outside. There was no traffic noise or sirens. Judy felt like she was the only person awake in the city. Except for the killer.

  She shifted on a stool at the kitchen counter and shivered despite her thick gray sweatsuit and sweat socks. Judy's apartment was three floors up and there was a buzzer system downstairs. It was a large apartment painted a soft ivory, with a galley kitchen off a large living room, where a foldout canvas futon sat against a wall in front of an Ikea coffee table. Pungent odors of turpentine and acrylics wafted from a bedroom converted to a painting studio. A red mountain bike and colorful loops of rock-climbing rope occupied the space under the two front windows. The articles reassured Judy that she was safe and at home. Secure.

  She bent over Darning's white notebook and tucked a strand of stray blond hair into a wide black headband. The notebook had a spiral at the top and was a typical assignment book, like a student might keep. A math student, that is. The notebook contained only numbers, written in pencil. They were recorded single-spaced on the skinny lines in a double column:

  Judy counted the numbers on the first page. About thirty-six. She flipped through the book and estimated it held about 110 pages. So how many numbers were there in the book? 36 × 110. Oh-oh. Judy's calculations fizzled as they traveled her brain's circuitry. An attack of math anxiety. Judy told herself it was all society's fault, but that didn't make her add, subtract, or multiply any better. Long division was out of the question and caused ovarian cramps.

  She retrieved a pencil from a jar of paintbrushes and palette knives. She scribbled the problem on a piece of scrap paper, bit her lip, and stumbled to a solution. About 3,960 numbers. But what did they mean? Judy stared at the lists. It was a nightmare— a mathphobe analyzing a notebook of numbers. She forced herself to think despite the disability imposed upon her by sexists and Republicans.

  39203930. The number was too long to be a house or phone number. It couldn't be a Social Security number because they were nine digits. Judy paused. Eb Darning had been a banker; maybe they were bank account numbers. She grabbed her purse from the counter, found her checkbook, and opened it. At the bottom of her Sierra Club checks were some blubby black symbols, then 289403726, then more symbols, and after that 0 384 273. The seven-digit number was her account number. Judy had to look at it every time she endorsed a check for deposit because she couldn't remember numbers. It didn't look like the eight-digit numbers in Darning's notebook.

  She hovered in thought over the notebook. Different banks had different systems. Maybe Darning's bank had a different way of numbering accounts. But that would mean the white notebook dated from when he worked in the bank, in the sixties. Judy examined the notebook. Couldn't be. It didn't look that old. Its
pages weren't curled or frayed at the edges. She guessed the notebook was three or four years old. Not carbon dating, but accurate enough.

  So what did the numbers mean? They had to mean something, didn't they? Darning was comfortable with numbers. With money. Judy thought a second. Maybe they were serial numbers from bills. She went through her wallet and pulled out the cash inside. Three one-dollar bills with Kelly green serial numbers. B12892443E. F40155765E. L34522346G. She dug deeper and fished out a twenty. B38-803945C.

  Judy was intrigued. The serial numbers on the bills were eight digits, like the numbers in the notebook. But the serial numbers had letters at either end and the numbers in Darning's notebook didn't. Damn. What could they be? What would a certain serial number mean anyway? Counterfeiting? Bribes? Judy had nothing to go on and didn't think they were serial numbers anyway.

  She pushed the bills aside and picked up the notebook. Darning had written the numbers with a purposeful hand, not scribbled or messy. They almost looked as if they were copied from somewhere. Where? Darning had given the notebook to a little boy, Dennell. Why? Did Darning know Steere was going to kill him? Did Steere kill Darning for the notebook? Judy kept thinking of the eighty dollars in the shoe box. Where had Darning gotten it? Blackmail? Did the notebook have anything to do with it?

  Judy had no answers so she went to the refrigerator. Her best ideas came to her while she stood in front of her Amana, and she believed it was the freon fumes. She breathed deeply. Still no answers. She grabbed the milk carton, popped the cardboard spout, and took a slug.

  Judy closed the fridge and glanced at the black Kit-Kat clock. Usually it made her smile, but not tonight. Tonight it meant she was getting nowhere, struggling to multiply while her best friend was fighting for her life. Judy looked at the telephone and considered calling the hospital again. She'd called ten minutes ago and they'd told her Mary was in intensive care after surgery. There would be no new news.

  Judy popped a chocolate chip cookie into her mouth from a crinkled Chips Ahoy bag on the counter. Her thoughts returned to Marta. The TV news had reported she'd been missing for hours. Judy felt a twinge. She considered telling the cops about the notebook, but they wouldn't do anything about it tonight in this weather. Besides, Judy sensed Marta was alive. She remembered the endless demands Marta had made during the Steere case. People like Marta survived. It was the people around them who succumbed.

  Still, where was Marta? What had she learned about Steere? Judy stopped her munching and reflected how dopey she'd been to fall for that lie about the D.A. Marta must have learned that Steere killed Darning, but she couldn't figure out why either. Judy sensed they were working on answering the same questions right now. Where could Marta be? Could she make sense of these numbers?

  Judy's confused gaze met those of the man in a glossy print thumbtacked to the wall over the kitchen counter, Cézanne's Self-Portrait in a White Cap. She had bought the print at the art museum because she liked the look in the painter's eyes. They were brown as chocolate-covered almonds, and Cézanne's short, layered brushstrokes projected assurance and solidity. When Judy had stood close to Cézanne's paintings at the show, she could see the thickness of the paint and how the artist had waited for one layer to dry before applying the next. Waiting and painting, reworking and recombining the pigments. So different from her favorite artist, Van Gogh. Cézanne knew what he wanted to do but unlike Van Gogh it came from his head, not his heart.

  There was a lesson in it. Judy had to disengage her heart and start using her head. Forget about her math anxiety and Mary and Marta and figure this puzzle out. Solve it. She looked anew at the first page of the book just as the doorbell rang. Startled, she turned toward the sound, her pencil poised. Who could it be? Judy felt edgy again.

  She dropped her pencil and eased off the kitchen stool, away from the apartment door. On the way she grabbed her portable phone from its cradle, ready to dial 911. Would the police answer on a night like this? Would anybody? She slid a carving knife from the butcher block.

  The bell rang again from downstairs. Judy wasn't sure what to do. She wasn't buzzing anybody in blind. There was no intercom downstairs, her building being older. Judy tiptoed to the window and peered at the street from behind the snowy sill.

  43

  Assistant District Attorney Tom Moran's life had become a living hell. Torture without rest, suffering without relief. Constant screaming and crying pierced his eardrums. He hadn't slept all night and was sweating like a beer bottle in summer, so stifling was the tiny rowhouse in East Falls. His mother-in-law had cranked up the heat because it was the first night his daughters were home from the hospital. Ashley and Brittany Moran. Twins.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God. His mother-in-law, in her quilted robe, held the newborn Brittany, whose agonized screams filled the living room. His mother, in her flannel nightgown, held the newborn Ashley, whose agonized screams filled the dining room. Wandering between the two rooms in pajamas, like lost souls in purgatory, were his tipsy father-in-law, who peaked as a high school quarterback for Cardinal Dougherty, and his angry father, who couldn't be in the same room with his mother since their divorce. Satan was present in the form of his sister-in-law, who allegedly came to "help" for the night and brought her three little devils. God only knew where his wife Marie was.

  "Tom! Tom! We need two receiving blankets in the living room! They're in the nursery!"

  Tom ran to fetch the receiving blankets, whatever they were. He didn't bother to figure out who was making the demand. There were so many demands for him to meet, their source was academic. His tie flying, Tom bolted upstairs to the nursery he hadn't finished painting. On the stairs he almost tripped on one of the devils, who was corkscrewing his index finger into his freckled nose. "Don't do that, Patrick," Tom said to his nephew.

  "Shut up, dorkhead," the kid muttered.

  Tom turned on the stair, but he didn't have time to go back. He hit the nursery at full speed and sidestepped the baby gifts and paint cans. Marie had been after him to get the cans out before the twins were born, but the Steere trial took all his time. Only two of the nursery walls were Blush Rose and only half the baseboards were Cotton Candy. Meantime Tom had probably lost the fucking Steere trial. He'd stood in front of enough juries to know they weren't with him and he was too tired to give a shit.

  "Tom! Tom, bring two pacifiers when you come down!"

  Tom tripped across the shaggy pink rug to the changing tables. Underneath were shelves full of disposable diapers, Desitin, and baby powder. He shoved it all around but didn't see any receiving blankets. Or what else? Pacifiers. Meanwhile, all hell was breaking loose on the Steere case. The security guards got dead, DiNunzio got shot, and Richter went AWOL. Where the fuck were the pacifiers?

  He searched the soft toys and baby gifts on the floor. No receiving blankets and it was time to receive. Tom tore through the baby gifts. A pink rattle flew in the air, then a pink playsuit. Everything was a rosy blur. Marie wanted girls, so at least she should be happy. That used to make Tom happy, giving Marie what she wanted. Providing, fixing, doing. That was his job. But this twin thing went too far. Now the Steere case was exploding and he was snowed in. With the screaming twins. In Baby Hell.

  "Tom! Tom, the blankets! And the pacifiers!"

  Tom chucked a fluffy white bear to the side. He was an assistant district attorney of a major metropolitan area. He had attended St. Joe's University and Villanova Law. He had ambitions to be a Common Pleas Court judge. He had no room for a baby in his life, much less two. He drop-kicked a pink elephant.

  And now Tom was going to lose Steere, he knew it. The indictment shouldn't have been brought in the first place. The best thing I can do for you, his boss had said, is to give you a case nobody can win. Then you don't look bad when you lose. Try this case for me, Tom. I'll remember you did. That's what his boss had said, but he failed to add that falling on your sword was vastly overrated as a career move. Plus you're the one that has to go to work the n
ext day with your spleen in your hand.

  "Tom! Tom! The blankets! And the pacifiers!"

  Tom rummaged on a flowery chair until he found two pink blankets that were too light to keep even a doll warm. He ran downstairs with them and stopped when he saw the devil sitting on the stair, finger still embedded. "Hey, little dick," Tom said under his breath. "Find any diamonds?"

  "Mom!" the kid wailed, and ran screaming.

  Tom ran down to the living room where putrid, sulfurous smells arose from the screaming and crying. The air reeked of yellow baby shit, like mustard gas, and he detected a wheaty new stench, puked-up formula. The babies vomited like volcanoes— gastric reflux, according to his mother-in-law— and the lava on Tom's shoulder was already rancid. The house was so damn hot and his mother-in-law wouldn't let him open a window— Are you crazy? —because of the draft on the twins. Tom handed the battle-ax the blankets and fled on foot.

  "You forgot the pacifiers. I said pacifiers!"

  Tom veered left and hustled back to the stairway. He knew he was supposed to be happy but he wasn't. Everything had changed overnight. His wife had blown up like a balloon. His house was swollen with people. His career had been warped out of shape by the Steere case. He'd been working like a dog for a year now, unfortunately the same time as Marie got pregnant. He knew there would be some point when he would feel happy, but that time hadn't happened yet.

  Tom raced across the nursery to the two pink dressers against the unpainted wall and tore open the first drawer by its bunny knob. Inside were itty-bitty undershirts and little hooded sleepers. He mushed them around. The twins wailed louder, shrill cries of the colicky floating up from the depths.