Social Services would have to come out anyway, check out her place, make certain it was appropriate for Josh. It wasn’t. She knew the rules. She had to have a bedroom for him. She didn’t. Not unless she returned to her house in Irvine, which everyone was advising her not to do. And obviously, living with someone whose life could be in danger was not an appropriate placement for a child.
Of course, she thought, she could be in danger from Josh himself.
Then she thought of the Adams case set to open trial the next week. The entire Social Services department was in an uproar over it. The case was extremely controversial and had attracted extensive coverage by the media. It was a felony assault, with a G.B.I, enhancement, for great bodily injury. Victor Adams was a young white-collar professional, an Orange County yuppie, employed at McDonald Douglas as a high-level aerospace engineer. He was the father of two beautiful little girls. The victim was a female social worker. According to the police reports, the Social Services Agency had received information from the school psychologist that one of the little girls had been sexually abused by the father. On the basis of this information, the county authorities had obtained a court order and removed the minor children from the home, placing them in two separate foster homes while charges were being prepared against the father. The abuse turned out to be totally unfounded, but the family was destroyed. The defendant lost his job, his wife suffered a nervous breakdown, they lost their home, and the minor children spent six traumatic months separated from their parents, only able to see their mother during a weekly visitation.
The irony and tragedy in the case was the fact that the younger child, a five-year-old girl, was actually sexually assaulted while in foster care by an older teenage boy residing in the same foster home. On hearing this information, the father went crazy and chased the social worker to her car, punched out the window with his fist, spraying her with glass and causing severe lacerations to her face and neck. The entire case was a tragedy, a mockery of the system. The father had been wronged, the social worker who was only doing her job scarred for life, the children made to suffer, and the family destroyed. The clincher was the fact that the exact crime that was to be prevented had occurred. Sad case. Extremely interesting both legally and morally.
Lara deflated, letting her body compress on the sofa, sink lower and lower, like gravity was pulling her down. If the blood on the T-shirt was nothing—a spill from his bike or whatever—Josh would never forgive her for abandoning him again. But if Social Services took him on their own, then he couldn’t blame her. She decided to wait it out.
She was vacillating.
If they did remove her sister’s son and place him in a foster home, she thought, leaning in the opposite direction now, even more psychological damage might be inflicted on the boy. She just couldn’t let it happen without at least trying to make it work. He might resent her, she thought, sniffing, holding back the tears, but all they had to call family was each other. And if there was any suspicion that he was involved, the way to find out would be to spend time with him, watch him, not send him away somewhere. She just couldn’t wash her hands of him, no matter how much she wanted to.
The first thing she had to do was find out whose blood was on that T-shirt.
Chapter 11
Dr. Frederick Werner’s offices were only a few miles down the road in neighboring Costa Mesa. As Lara steered the Jaguar into the parking lot of a large medical tower with tinted glass windows, she turned to Josh, who was silent and withdrawn. They’d had another battle. He had stayed out past dark on his bike and Lara had panicked. Then when she’d told him about the appointment and he had pitched a fit, she had taken his bike and locked it in the trunk of her car. He hadn’t spoken a word since.
“This is it, Josh,” she said, cutting the ignition and placing her hands in her lap. She wanted desperately to ask him about the T-shirt, but now was not the time. “If you don’t like this doctor, we’ll get another one. But let’s give him a chance, okay?”
Werner’s office was on the tenth floor. From all appearances, the majority of the people employed in the building had already left for the day, and the enormous skyscraper was eerily empty. They were late. Lara glanced at her watch and hoped the psychiatrist hadn’t given up and gone home. Josh was standing on the far side of the elevator, as far from Lara as he could get, staring at the control panel. If he’d been eight or ten years old, she might have had some clue how to treat him, but with a teenager she was completely lost. She couldn’t spank him and send him to his room when he refused to obey her. All she could do was take his one possession away—his bike.
“I didn’t mean that about your bike,” she said just as the doors opened. “You can still ride it and all. But you stayed out too long. Josh, and you simply must see a counselor.”
Six other physicians were listed on the door along with Werner. Lara stood at the reception desk and looked around, but there was no one in sight, just a labyrinth of halls and doors. Finally she yelled, “Hey, is anyone in here?”
From the back she heard a chair squeak on plastic, and a tall, handsome man in his late thirties or early forties came out and extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Werner. You must be Judge Sanderstone and this is Josh.” He shook Lara’s hand. His hand was cold and soft like a woman’s. He tried to shake Josh’s hand, but the boy wouldn’t even look at him. “Come with me. We’ll talk in here.”
His office was quite elaborate, with a comfortable pale blue leather sectional with a sort of metallic sheen, a glass-topped coffee table in the center, and real art on the walls. Lara didn’t ask about his fees, but she could well imagine. She looked for a desk and didn’t see one. This room must be his session room. There were a few certificates on the walls. Lara walked over to gaze at them. Josh just stood there, refusing to sit down.
She took a seat and brushed an unruly strand of hair off her forehead, feeling the urge to excuse herself and slip into the ladies’ room to put on some lipstick or some blush, maybe comb her hair.
“Uh, thank you for seeing us, Dr. Werner,” Lara said. “Josh, as you can see, is not too happy about this, but he’s been through a terrible ordeal.” She looked knowingly at the psychiatrist.
“I see,” Werner said slowly. “Why don’t you let me speak with your aunt, Josh, for a few moments? There’s some magazines in the reception area and some fruit juice. We’ll come and get you in a few moments.”
Josh looked relieved as he exited the room, almost slamming the door behind him. Lara sat nervously under Werner’s penetrating gaze and crossed and uncrossed her legs.
“I’m somewhat aware of what this situation involves. I’ve seen the papers, and Judge Murdock called me this afternoon. In case she didn’t tell you, we’re neighbors. I know both Irene and her husband. Why don’t you give me a rundown?”
Lara started speaking, tentatively at first, and then she couldn’t seem to stop. She told Werner about her relationship with Ivory, the night she’d come to her apartment, the break-in at her place. Basically, the whole sordid mess. Dr. Werner sat attentively, nodding his head off and on. Whatever kind of demeanor psychiatrists affect to get people to talk, this man obviously had down pat. Lara had just spilled her guts and probably consumed most of the hour. Finally she stopped herself.
“I’m sorry…” she said, embarrassed. “It’s Josh you should be talking to now. I’ll go get him.” She stood and headed for the door and then stopped. The real issue was trapped in her throat. She had to tell someone. “Dr. Werner, there is a slight—very slight—possibility that Josh could have played some part in my sister’s and brother-in-law’s death. I know this sounds awful for me to even mention something like this, but—”
“That’s fine, Lara,” he said. “May I call you Lara?” She nodded, and he continued. “From what I can see, you have a lot of unresolved conflicts regarding your sister and the circumstances surrounding her death. You’re harboring a great deal of guilt and maybe even demonstrating a little paranoia.”
When Lara blanched, he quickly added, “It’s all perfectly normal. When someone close to you is violently murdered, it’s easy to become fearful and confused. I would like to see you again, not just your nephew.”
“Dr. Werner,” she said curtly, “I am not paranoid. I’d appreciate it if you would explore the possibility that my nephew was involved. Will you do that?”
“Of course,” he answered calmly, leaning back in his chair. “But I would like to counsel you on another occasion.”
Lara stared at him. He was the typical shrink—more concerned with amassing an enormous bill than finding out if her nephew was a murderer. She couldn’t afford twenty grand in psychiatrist’s bills along with all the other expenses. “We’ll see,” she said. “I’ll get Josh.”
His eyes were penetrating, a rusty brown with flecks of yellow. Even with his comments about her being paranoid, Lara was enthralled by his eyes, his rich brown hair, a little black mole over the top of his full lips that looked like a beauty mark. Besides, he might be right. The bloody T-shirt could be a fluke. It could have been in there for months for all she knew. She asked herself if Werner was married and glanced at his hand for the wedding ring. It wasn’t there.
Lara had a thick lump in her throat and tried to swallow it. Whatever attraction she had for this man suddenly vanished, and she felt all the blood drain from her face. In her mind, the Packard Cummings rap sheet appeared—the prior convictions for rape. She’d forgotten about his record when she spoke to Rickerson this afternoon. Ivory had been raped. Cummings had broken into her home. He could be the killer. That would eliminate Josh.
“Are you all right?” Werner said, a little flurry of concern in his eyes. “Why don’t you sit back down and I’ll get you a glass of water?”
“No,” Lara said, heading for the door. “I’ll get Josh. I just need to use your phone.”
“There’s one at the receptionist’s desk.”
As soon as she was out of the door, she jogged down the long hall, sent Josh in to see Werner, and stabbed in the numbers to the San Clemente P.D., standing up behind the receptionist’s console, too nervous to sit down.
“He’s not in?” she repeated. “Do you know how to reach him? This is Judge Sanderstone and I think it’s urgent.”
She read the number off the dial of the phone and sat down, picking up a pen and tapping it on the counter. They’d said they could find him. A few seconds later, the phone rang and she grabbed it. “Rickerson,” she said, hearing his voice, speaking rapidly, “that man Cummings has a history of rape, sexual offenses. Ivory was raped, so…he could be the one…the one that killed them. We have to find him.”
Rickerson was unruffled. “No shit,” he said. He was perfectly aware of Cumming’s record. “I’ve had his description broadcast to every unit in the city and across the state. We’re trying now to reach his parole agent and get his last known address. The agent’s out of town, but someone else is checking his files.”
The front of the reception desk was high. Lara could barely see over it. “And that girl’s boyfriend who threatened me?”
“Look, Lara,” he said, a hint of annoyance in his voice, “I know how you feel right now, but why don’t you just let me do my job? It’s not like we’re dragging our heels right now. For this kind of case, we’re working at breakneck speed. If you hadn’t been who you were, we wouldn’t even have the lab reports back yet. They’ve got stuff backed up for months both in forensics and pathology. They don’t even have enough drawers for the stiffs downtown.”
He was right. She’d been pressing, calling too much. “I just remembered his rap sheet. I wasn’t certain you’d seen the whole thing.”
“I’ve seen it all.” He was abrupt, and then his voice softened. “Take is easy, Lara. Try to get some rest. Just lay low, stay in that condo, take care of your nephew and yourself. Leave the police work to me. I’m the cop. As soon as I know anything, I’ll call you. Deal?”
“Deal,” she said weakly. Then he was gone.
About thirty minutes later, Josh and Werner came out. It must have been his last appointment because Werner walked to the door of the office with them, slipping his jacket on. Then he followed them down the hall and got in the elevator with them. Josh was sullen. This time he stood next to Lara, however. Anything, evidently, was better than Werner.
At the condo, Josh told her he hated Dr. Werner, that Werner was nothing but a stuffy prick.
“Well, I don’t care what you think about him,” she told him. “You have to see him. That’s all there is to it.”
“You can’t order me around. You’re not my mother. My mother’s dead. I hate this place. I hate you. I hate that stupid doctor.”
Lara flopped down on the sofa. She was inches away from calling Social Services herself. He was standing in the middle of the room glaring at her. “Josh,” she said, “have you fallen off your bike lately?”
“I don’t fall off my bike.”
“I see,” Lara said. “Do you or any of your friends practice Satanism? You know, sacrifice animals or anything? Don’t be afraid to tell me, but if you do, it’s important that I know.” She was trying to remain calm during this discussion. It was difficult. Her hands were trembling; she shoved them under her hips and sat on them.
He looked at her like she was insane. “You’re crazy. I can’t believe you’re even a judge. All you do is ask me ridiculous questions.”
Lara stood her ground. “You didn’t answer my question, Josh.”
“No,” he yelled at her, his voice booming. “Do I look like a devil worshiper? What, do you want me to join up? Is that what you are? You look like a frigging witch.”
Things were getting out of hand fast. His chest was rising and falling, and his face was turning red. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s have a truce.” She stood. “It’s late. We’re both tired. Since you called me a witch, you can sleep on the sofa tonight.”
Lara left him standing there and went to the bedroom and closed the door. A few minutes later, he tapped lightly on the door, a solemn expression on his face. “Can I at least have the bedspread?”
“Here,” Lara said, snatching it off the bed and tossing it to him. Then she remembered the backpack and picked it up. For a moment she stood there with it in her hands and searched his face. “Need this?” she asked, curious as to his response.
Josh reached out and tried to grab the backpack out of Lara’s hands. She stepped back and Josh sighed, dropping his hands to his sides.
“No, I don’t need anything.” Wrapping the bedspread around him, he walked the few feet to the sofa and collapsed.
“Good night, Josh,” Lara said as she closed the door again. She opened the backpack and pulled out the bloody T-shirt. The only way to know for sure now was to have it tested, find out whose blood it was. She wondered if she could arrange something like that without anyone knowing. She didn’t know. Back it went into the backpack. Tomorrow, she thought. Get through tonight and deal with it all tomorrow.
The room was dark and she watched the shadows, imagining flashes of the blood-spattered walls at the house in San Clemente. She held her breath, listening for Josh in the other room. He knew she had the backpack and might assume she knew about the T-shirt. He could come in while she was sleeping and bash her head in or suffocate her. Suddenly she felt desperately ill and bolted to the bathroom to hug the toilet bowl. All that was left in her stomach to vomit were the sodas she had consumed during the day. Josh had eaten; she couldn’t swallow a bite without having it stick in her throat.
She finally stood and washed her face. Then she leaned her head under the tap and rinsed it with water. Dropping her clothes on the floor by the bed, she crawled under the covers and pulled them up to her chin and stared at the ceiling. She stayed that way for at least an hour, her body as rigid as an ironing board, listening for sounds in the other room, listening to the clock tick next to her on the nightstand. At two o’clock, she turned off the light, but still she could not sleep
. She reviewed cases in her mind. She counted sheep. At four o’clock, her eyes closed involuntarily and her exhausted body fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Lara heard the phone ringing and opened her eyes. She was stiff and her head was pounding. She’d left the portable phone in the kitchen, and Josh had evidently answered it. He yelled at her from the living room, “Phone.” Then he came to the bedroom door and stood there until Lara tossed on her robe and staggered over to take the phone.
“Lara,” a woman’s voice said, “it’s Irene.”
“Irene, I took my nephew to see Werner. Not bad. But you know, Josh doesn’t like him.”
“Isn’t there anything I can do for you, Lara? And other people here at the courts have been inquiring. People are concerned. This is a tragedy. Such a terrible tragedy.”
“No,” Lara said, lowering her body to the edge of the bed. “There’s nothing anyone can do. I’m arranging the funeral. I hope that you’ll come. We don’t have any relatives.” Self-pity was evident in her voice and she tried to suppress it. “Irene, something horrible came to light. This man—this man,” she started, stammering and gasping. Just the thought of this was more than she could bear. “This man who appeared on a bail review in front of me that day before Ivory and Sam were murdered. He’s the one who broke into my house. I released the son of a bitch. And he has a prior for rape. Ivory, bless her heart, was raped. I’m losing my mind over here. Let me tell you.”
“Why did you release this man?” Irene said. “You mean on an ordinary bail situation, right?”
“No,” Lara said. “I would have denied bail completely—any amount. Evergreen himself told me to grant him O.R., said he was working as a C.I. for some police agency…big drug case or something.”
“Well, dear,” Irene said, “it sounds like nothing more than a terribly unfortunate situation. At least you know who he is and may see an end to this in sight. That’s something, isn’t it, Lara?”
Interest of Justice Page 14
