Sullivan's Law

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “The girls were all snatched off the street, taken to a remote location where they were raped, then their bodies were either tossed out of a moving car or buried in a shallow grave. The killer wore a condom. Downly wore a condom when he raped Luisa Cortez. The only exception was the girl from Los Angeles.” He glanced through his notes. “The other similarities were that all four girls were wearing dresses and they all had on white cotton underpants.”

  Brad looked over at Carolyn. “You pegged Downly as a pedophile from the beginning. He certainly didn’t fit the standard profile. Most of the time they’re middle-aged men. Downly was only nineteen. How did you know there were other victims?”

  “He got sloppy, remember?” Carolyn said. “He dumped Luisa Cortez out of the car thinking she was dead. The girl from L.A. must have been his first victim. If she disappeared five years ago, Downly would have been fourteen. That’s when he told John he’d committed his first murder.”

  Without saying anything, Carolyn got up and left the room. Brad went out to check on her. She was standing in the hall crying. “I had him, don’t you see? He was already a murderer when the court placed him on probation. I should have seen it. He was never engaged. Everything he told me was a lie. He was purposely trying to deceive me. Except for the girl from L.A., he must have killed the other three during the time I was actively supervising him.”

  “Listen to me,” Brad said, taking hold of her shoulders. “None of this would have turned out the way it did without you. You’ve cleared an innocent man that no one else cared about. You served as bait to reel in Downly and Mills. The jail accidentally set him free. He might still be out there if it wasn’t for you. When everything went to hell in that house in Pasadena, you handled the situation like a champ. You’re not a failure. You’re a hero.”

  “Then why do I feel so lousy?” Carolyn asked, removing a tissue from her purse and blowing her nose.

  “Because like all of us, you want to put an end to the worst kind of violence there is, crimes committed against innocent children. We can’t stop it, Carolyn. All we can do is fight it. And that’s just what you did.”

  “Thanks,” Carolyn said, linking eyes with him.

  “There’s only one thing I want.”

  Carolyn wondered if he was going to ask her to marry him. She’d already made her decision, at least as far as the immediate future was concerned. She liked Brad better as a friend than a lover. The aspects of his personality that made him exciting would probably make her miserable if they were married.

  “Drop out of law school,” Brad told her. “If you insist on continuing, promise me you’ll take a job with the DA’s office. I couldn’t stand to see you representing criminals.”

  Carolyn smiled. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Carolyn sent John and Rebecca home with Isobel. Now that everyone was clamoring for a chance to speak to Daniel, Brad Preston was suddenly his best friend. They were in the hall outside the conference room. A gang of reporters were camped out on the front lawn of the police station.

  Brad suggested a corporate apartment complex located not far from the government center as a temporary solution to Daniel’s housing problem. Using his cell phone, he called and made an appointment for them to come over in thirty minutes. Daniel was recovering nicely from the gunshot wound, but he looked tired and somewhat disoriented.

  “The way things are shaping up,” Brad told him, draping an arm over Daniel’s shoulder, “you’re going to have more money than God. This multiscreen monitoring device should support you for the rest of your life. Now, if the exoskeleton works right, the sky’s the limit.” He held up a palm. “I know freeing up the big money will take some time. I understand you have an inheritance which should hold you over for at least a month. I’m certain we won’t have a problem getting a loan if you need money.”

  “A loan?” Daniel asked, perplexed. “Why would I need a loan?”

  “Scratch that,” Brad said, realizing that dealing with Daniel was not going to be as easy as he’d thought. “The first thing on the agenda is to get you a driver’s license. Then I’ll take you car shopping. A Ferrari might be too ostentatious. A used Porsche would make a nice statement. We could also consider a Jag. What’s your favorite color?”

  “I need books and paper.”

  Carolyn and Hank Sawyer were standing in the doorway to the detective bay, eavesdropping on the conversation. She leaned over and whispered in Hank’s ear, “Looks like Daniel has an agent.”

  “We’ll get you all the books and paper you need,” Brad told him. “We need to work on your appearance. People may put you on the cover. There’s a men’s shop close to the apartment. We’ll stop by later and get you some decent clothes. You need dress shirts, a few pairs of decent slacks, a nice sports jacket, and at least one or two ties. The representatives from Mitsubishi want to take you to lunch tomorrow. Your attorney should probably go with you. Just remember that lawyers charge by the hour. They may act like your buddy, but they’re not. If you feel the need to talk, I’ll be glad to oblige you.”

  “Preston is a case,” Hank said, moving his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “Aren’t you going to rescue your man?”

  “No,” Carolyn told him, smiling. “Brad might do him some good. Daniel needs to become more worldly. They’re kind of cute together.”

  “I don’t need all those things,” Daniel told him, looking down at his feet. “All I need is a new pair of shoelaces. These have blood on them from the day I got shot. I guess I could wash them.”

  “Your time’s too valuable to spend it washing shoelaces,” Brad told him, steering him by the elbow. “Oh, I almost forget. You’ll need a cell phone.”

  “Why?”

  “Because everyone has one. It’s great. You can take care of things while you’re sitting on the john.”

  Carolyn laughed, waving good-bye to Daniel.

  Seated at an empty desk in the detective bay, Carolyn was picking through the boxes of evidence the police had removed from Charles Harrison’s residence. She pulled out a thick stack of phone bills and began going through them page by page. One number kept reappearing. In each instance, the call lasted only a minute. She walked over to Hank’s desk. The workstations were separated by partitions. “Did you check out this number?”

  “Yeah,” the detective said, adjusting his reading glasses. “Trevor White called it, I believe. The woman who answered didn’t speak English. Must have been one of the maid’s friends.”

  “Usually when you see calls of this duration, it’s a code of some kind. I used to call my mother collect from college. I’d ask to speak to a fictitious, prearranged person. Mother would refuse to accept the call, then call me back on the pay phone in the dorm.”

  “That’s defrauding the phone company,” Hank said, staring at his computer screen.

  “I know,” Carolyn said. “But collect calls were almost twice as much as regular calls. Trust me, Hank, something’s going on here.”

  “Don’t they need you back at the probation department?” he asked, typing out a report on the death of Eddie Downly and the stabbing of Percy Mills. The Pasadena Police Department held jurisdiction, but Ventura had to submit reports outlining their involvement with the two subjects.

  Carolyn wandered back to the desk. She decided to check it out herself. With this big a case, things sometimes fell through the cracks. She instantly recognized the voice of Madeline Harrison. Instead of speaking, she listened.

  “Is that you, Charles? Did a liver come in?”

  Carolyn covered her mouth, then mumbled something in a deep voice.

  “I’ll call you back at the hospital,” Madeline said. “We must have a bad connection.”

  Carolyn hung up, shouting over the partition, “She has a private line!”

  “Who?”

  “Madeline Harrison,” she told him. “She has a private phone line in her room at Fairview. And guess who she thought was calling her? Her dead husband. He�
��s in a hospital somewhere waiting for a liver transplant.”

  Hank stood up. “Is this some kind of a prank?”

  “Absolutely not,” she said, her veins pumping with adrenaline. “If we hurry, we might be able to catch Arline Shoeffel before she leaves for the day. We’ll need a court order to get her phone records released. As we speak, she’s calling Chief Harrison. We have to get the name of the hospital.”

  “Give me the damn number,” Hank barked, shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s a good thing Trevor White’s in the hospital. That guy could mess up a wet dream. You call the judge. She can authorize it over the phone, then make it official later.”

  Hank got a supervisor on the line at Sprint, giving her the number and asking her to trace the call. “Boston Memorial,” he called out to one of the other detectives a few minutes later. “Get the Boston PD on the line. We’ll e-mail them everything we’ve got on Harrison. He must have been admitted under an alias. They’ll have to move fast.”

  “Can’t they tell what room number she called?” Carolyn asked when Hank disconnected.

  “No,” the detective told her, whipping his tie off and tossing it on his desk. “They can only trace it to the hospital. They can’t trace it internally. I was planning to take a few days off. Looks like I’ll be flying to Boston.”

  Carolyn was snuggled next to Paul Leighton Tuesday evening. They were seated in a canvas swing in his backyard, sipping wine as they gazed up at the night sky. Daniel, Lucy, Rebecca, John, and Isobel had gone out to dinner and a movie.

  “So Madeline Harrison was running the show from the start?” Paul said. “Does it look like they’ll be able to get a conviction?”

  “Absolutely,” she told him. “The DA is filing three counts of attempted first degree murder. Madeline and Charles Harrison are facing three life sentences. If they had succeeded, they would have been executed.”

  “What defines first and second degree?”

  “A willful, deliberate, and premeditated act.”

  “Will they ever get out?”

  “Doubtful,” Carolyn told him. “Not when there are multiple victims, explosives, kidnapping, numerous firearms violations. I’m referring to Madeline. Her husband will more than likely die before the case ever gets to trial. Boyd Chandler cut a deal. As soon as Charles Harrison heard about it, he confessed. They don’t expect him to live more than a few days if he doesn’t get a liver. He’s got three hundred people above him on the transplant list. If I was in his shoes, I’d confess too. Who wants to carry something like that to their grave?”

  “From the way it sounds, he was pressured into all this by his wife,” Paul said. “Can’t he reclaim his former position on the list?”

  “Nope,” Carolyn said. “I’m sure there are far more deserving people. Harrison was a deputy chief. He and his diabolical wife plotted a murder that we managed to stop. I thought we weren’t going to talk about my work tonight.”

  “It’s dark,” Paul said, smiling. “The kids won’t be home for at least another two hours.”

  “Oh, really?” she said coyly. “Are you making a suggestion that we go inside?”

  “Something like that,” he said. “Of course, there’s always the recliner.”

  Carolyn straddled him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him on the mouth. The swing began moving, yet it didn’t topple. She was wearing a white linen blouse that was held together at the top with laces. He undid the laces, then cupped one of her breasts in his hand. “Do you know how much progress I’ve made on my book?”

  “No,” she said, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

  “None,” Paul said. “You’re on my mind when I get up, when I go to bed. I think about you incessantly. I can’t work. I can’t sleep. The only thing I can do is eat. I weighed myself the other day. I’ve gained five pounds.”

  “Good,” Carolyn told him. “When I’m not trying to keep people from killing me, I think of you too. The five pounds you gained, I lost. It’s great being so stressed out that your body starts to shrink. I haven’t worn this outfit in years.”

  “Let’s go inside.”

  “Let’s wait.”

  “What?” Paul said loudly, lifting her off of him. “You’re a tease. You’re never going to sleep with me. I feel like I’m back in high school again.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Carolyn said, stretching her legs out in front of her. “I don’t want it to be rushed the first time. We’ve waited this long. Why can’t we go away somewhere where we don’t have to worry the kids will walk in on us?”

  “When?”

  “We could go to your house in Pasadena next weekend,” she said, thinking it would give her a chance to take care of the kind of things men gave no thought to when they were eager to get a woman in bed—have her hair cut, get a manicure, shave her legs, catch up on her rest. “Isobel could stay here with the kids.”

  Paul thought a few moments, as if he were solving a complex problem. “Would we leave Friday or Saturday?”

  “I don’t know,” Carolyn told him. “Why?”

  He placed his arm on her shoulders again. “I want to know how long I have to wait. It’s a few minutes past seven on Tuesday. If we leave Friday, I’ll only have to wait sixty-five hours, or approximately thirty-nine hundred minutes. That’s if we don’t start counting until midnight tonight and we leave at five. Now if you could take off work at noon, I would only have to wait sixty hours. Of course, there’s the drive to Pasadena and the Friday traffic which has to be factored in.”

  “Am I going to have to listen to this type of talk forever?” she asked, laughing. “You need to go back to work on your book.”

  He jerked his thumb toward the house. “We could always go inside now.”

  “Friday will be fine,” Carolyn said, a feeling of warmth spreading throughout her body. “Isn’t anticipation wonderful? Now we’ll have something to look forward to all week.”

  Turn the page to read a preview of Nancy Taylor

  Rosenberg’s next thriller

  SULLIVAN’S JUSTICE

  Coming from Kensington in May 2005

  Chapter One

  Thursday, December 23rd, 12:30 P.M.

  Death was waiting, crouched inside the garage of Suzanne Porter’s beautiful home.

  Her shoes slapped against the wet pavement only a few blocks away. The sky had been overcast when she’d left on her daily run. Now it was raining, and she was soaked. Because her hair was layered, its thick strands stuck to her face and annoyed her. The only way to tame it was to wear a baseball cap. She didn’t like to wear hats, though, as they gave her headaches.

  Trivial things couldn’t upset her today. She loved Ventura when it rained. Crossing to the other side of the street, she glanced through an opening between the houses and caught a glimpse of the Pacific Ocean snaking its way along the shoreline, the whitecaps churning. The surfers must be in heaven, she thought, seeing their heads bobbing in the water as they waited to catch the next wave.

  The town had grown around the historic San Buenaventura Mission, founded in 1782. Suzanne was delighted with her husband’s hometown, framed on one side by the sea and the other by the mountains. She felt certain they would spend the rest of their lives here. Her parents were dead and she had become very fond of Ted’s mother and father. In addition, they had a wide base of friends, some who had known Ted since childhood.

  She was filled with anticipation. Several months back, she’d decided on the perfect Christmas gift for her husband. Actually, it was a combined birthday and Christmas gift, but she was too excited to wait two weeks to give it to him. Her husband restored cars as a way to relax from the stress of his job. Once they were finished, it could take several months to find a buyer. He was always eager to start on another project, but he couldn’t due to lack of space. Three weeks ago, she had secretly sold off some of the stock she’d owned prior to their marriage and hired a contractor to expand their garage so it would hold four ca
rs. She would show him the plans on Christmas Day. Ted would love it.

  She had spent the last week preparing for the holiday. This was Suzanne’s year to have Ted’s family over, and she wanted everything to be just right. Her sister-in-law, Janice, was a gourmet cook. Rather than take a chance, she’d arranged to have the meal catered by La Orange, one of the best restaurants in Ventura. She’d threatened Ted that she would tell his mother he looked at pictures of naked girls on the Internet if he told anyone. So what if she was a lousy cook? She could make salads and spaghetti. Most of the time they ate out.

  Before she married, Suzanne had been a bond trader on Wall Street. When her hair had started turning gray at twenty-eight, she knew it was time to shop for a husband. Ted had been in New York on a business trip. He brokered for Merrill Lynch. She was taking a break while considering new career options.

  During the holidays, she lost her will power and ate everything in sight. The night before she’d wolfed down half a box of Godiva chocolates. Since she’d turned thirty the month before, she knew her indulgence would show up on her thighs. Her daily workout consisted of an hour lifting weights in her home gym followed by a two mile run. That morning, she’d forced herself to step on the dreaded scales. She’d expected three pounds, maybe four tops. How could she have gained eight pounds in two months? All her clothes were a size six. She decided to extend her run.

  Crossing the street again, she picked up the pace. By the time she reached her house, she was winded. She’d only added one mile, for God’s sake, she told herself. A few years ago, she could run ten miles and hardly break a sweat. She leaned over and clasped her knees, then started up the sidewalk. The rain had eased up, but the weather report had predicted another front would move in by evening. She missed snow.

  Suzanne had grown up in Connecticut. She remembered the snowball fights in her family’s front yard on Christmas Day, ice skating on Whitman Lake, and sledding down Black Canyon with her brothers. Sure the constantly sunny skies were nice, but when the average temperature ranged in the seventies, she sometimes forgot what month it was. And it didn’t seem like Christmas without snow. At least the rain provided some atmosphere. She laughed, thinking she should throw white sheets on the lawn and turn up the air conditioner.