by Tami Hoag
“They’re detectives, Zander. It’s about Marissa. They need to speak to you.”
No answer.
Vince leaned past a frowning Nasser and pressed the intercom button himself. “It’s Vince Leone, Zander,” he said in a pleasant, casual tone. “We spoke earlier this morning at Marissa’s house. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve got a couple more questions you might be able to help me with.”
“I don’t think so, Vince,” Zahn said. “I don’t think I can help you. I’m terribly upset by all of this.”
“I know. So is everyone—especially people who loved Marissa. Imagine what it would mean to her if you could help in any small way to find her killer. You’ve been such a good friend to her.”
No sound came out of the box for moment. Mendez looked from Vince to Nasser and back.
“I do have some good news from the hospital,” Vince said. “I went to check on little Haley, and she’s going to be fine.”
Another moment passed then came the sound of locks being turned on the other side of the front door. Zahn emerged wearing what looked to Mendez like black Chinese pajamas and a pair of clogs.
“Haley?” he said, looking up and just to the right of Leone’s head, as if he were seeing a vision in the sky. “Haley is all right? She’s going to be all right?”
“I spoke to her doctor.”
“Oh my God. Oh thank God,” Zahn whispered, wringing his hands absently as he spoke. “Could I see her? Do you think that might be possible—that I could speak to her and see her?”
“You would have to go into the hospital to see her, Zander,” Nasser said.
Zahn looked at him sharply.
His assistant shrugged. “Hospitals are full of sick people.”
“Haley isn’t sick, though,” Zahn pointed out. “She’s injured. She was injured somehow and her heart is broken. She’ll be heartbroken over Marissa. I’m heartbroken.”
“They won’t want her to have visitors yet,” Vince said. “But I’ll let you know as soon as they give the go-ahead, Zander. You’ll be my first call.”
“Thank you, Vince. I will appreciate that because I will want to see her. I—I’m so upset about what happened. Haley will be also.”
“I understand,” Vince said, nodding, then he glanced around. “Is there somewhere we can just sit down for a few minutes, Zander?”
The idea seemed to startle their odd host.
“I don’t want to add to your stress,” Vince assured him. “I’m just thinking we could sit down for a few minutes and chat. You knew Marissa so well. You might have some useful insights you may not even be aware of.
“Do you know what I mean, Zander?” he asked. “Sometimes we know things that may not seem significant until put into another context. I’m sure it’s the same in mathematics. A number is just a number until you assign it a purpose, right?”
Zahn put his head to one side like a quizzical bird, then slowly began to nod, pleased. “That’s a very interesting statement, Vince. I like that. I like that.”
His face took on a wondrous expression that made Mendez think the guy had some kind of psychedelic kaleidoscope hallucination going on in his head.
“So many people think of mathematics as being very static and absolute,” he said. “But that’s so wrong. It’s thinking in the abstract that frees the mind to the greatest of possibilities.”
He spoke with as much passion and clarity as Mendez had heard out of him. His gaze then became acutely focused on Leone, and he took a step closer to him. “We should talk about this, Vince.”
Vince made a comical grimace. “I’m afraid you’re already way ahead of me on the subject, Zander. Math was never my forte.”
“Because you were undoubtedly taught by people trapped in the pedantic world of what I call ‘base academia.’ And by base I mean ‘low’ or ‘common’ as opposed to basic.”
He looked sharply at Nasser again. “Did you hear that, Rudy? Vince’s thought? Contextual mathematics. This is another verbal approach to help us articulate how we want our students to open their minds to our subject. Don’t you agree, Rudy?”
Nasser looked a bit pissed, Mendez thought. Or maybe “jealous” was a better word. His mentor had found favor in someone else. Interesting.
But he covered it well and replied, “It’s brilliant. We should use that in orientation.”
“Brilliant,” Zahn said, tasting the word in his mouth like something buttery and smooth. “And you didn’t think you knew that, did you, Vince?”
“No, I didn’t,” Vince admitted. “See? It’s like I said: You may have some piece of knowledge that—unknown to you—could help Marissa.”
Zahn didn’t seem quite so pleased at having the idea turned around on him, but he couldn’t argue with the logic.
“I have chairs,” he said. But instead of inviting them into the house, he gestured like a bad public speaker at the collection of chrome and vinyl kitchen chairs lined up in five rows of five on his gravel yard.
As Zahn led the way down the path, Mendez leaned toward Vince and muttered, “Do you think he’ll offer us refreshments from one of those refrigerators?”
Leone gave him an elbow.
They sat down in a row like they were going to watch a play. Nasser, Zahn, Vince. Mendez very deliberately picked up an orange chair, pulled it out of line and sat it down facing the others. Zahn looked at him like he was the devil incarnate, but said nothing. Vince watched him, reserving his reaction.
“I’m sorry,” Mendez said, ducking his head contritely. “This is embarrassing, but I’m a little hard of hearing, Dr. Zahn. I had an accident when I was nine. Actually ... my mother struck me in the side of the head. It left me a little deaf. It’s been a problem my whole life.”
Vince arched an eyebrow.
Zahn studied him for a few seconds, letting his story sink in. “I’m so sorry, Tony. It’s difficult to be a child. I was a child once. It was difficult. Haley will find it difficult now. Not for the same reasons, though.”
“I’m not looking for people to feel sorry for me or anything,” Mendez said. “I’ll put the chair back when we’re finished. I just didn’t want you to think I’m trying to intimidate you. That’s not my intent at all.”
Zahn nodded and looked down in his lap. He rubbed his hands together, rubbed his palms against his thighs. His legs were thin as rails.
“Of course, Tony. Of course, Tony,” he muttered.
“Detective Mendez spoke with another of Marissa’s friends,” Vince said, then raised his voice to a low boom. “Isn’t that right, Detective?”
“Yes,” Mendez said, straight-faced. “Sara Morgan.”
“Sara, yes. She doesn’t like me,” Zahn said. “That’s all right. I understand. She’s very sad, I think.”
“Why would you say that, Zander?” he asked, taking Vince’s cue to use Zahn’s name as if they were old acquaintances.
Zahn gazed off into the distance. “Because that’s what I think. I think she’s very sad. It’s in her eyes. She has beautiful eyes. Don’t you think so? Blue like the Aegean Sea. But sad. And frightened. She was frightened of me.”
“Why is that?”
“She thinks I might be dangerous, I think.”
“That’s ridiculous, Zander,” Nasser said.
“Not to her,” Zahn said. “Her perception is her reality. She doesn’t understand who I am. People fear what they don’t understand.”
“You’re world-renowned in your field,” Nasser said.
Zahn nodded, looking away from them. “But not in her context. Isn’t that right, Vince?”
“I suppose so. She doesn’t really know you.”
“I’m just the strange neighbor,” Zahn said. “I am unknown. People fear the unknown. I fear the unknown. What we don’t know can hurt us.”
He began to rock a little on his red vinyl chair, twisting his hands together, rubbing his palms on his thighs.
Nasser still seemed to feel the need to suck up. “S
till,” he said, “you would never hurt a woman.”
“Oh, but I would,” Zahn said candidly, looking at his protégé.
Mendez felt every cop instinct in him come to attention. He cut a glance at Vince, who appeared not to react at all. Leone crossed his legs and picked at the crease in his trousers.
“I have,” Zahn said, looking Mendez straight in the eye. “I killed my mother.”
11
No one moved, no one breathed
Rudy Nasser looked stunned, completely at a loss for words.
Zander Zahn sat wringing his hands and rubbing his palms against his thighs.
Blood, Mendez thought. He’s trying to wipe the blood off his hands.
He had to have been a boy at the time, Mendez reasoned—a juvenile at most. Otherwise he would be doing life somewhere. He sure as hell wouldn’t be teaching at McAster College in Oak Knoll, California. He wouldn’t be a world-renowned anything. Mendez wondered if Arthur Buckman knew.
“It’s difficult to be a child.” Zahn repeated exactly what he had said moments before, after he had considered Mendez’s cock-and-bull story about being rendered deaf by a blow from his mother. “I was a child once. It was difficult.”
“Your mother abused you, Zander?” It was more of a statement than a question from Leone.
“I’m finished telling that story now, Vince,” Zahn said calmly. “It’s not a story I like to tell.”
Then why had he told them at all? Mendez wanted to ask. He wanted to pounce on the opportunity and press for more answers. But Leone was watching him from behind the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses, and Zahn was starting to rock on his chair as memories and old emotions churned inside him. Now was not the time to push.
“I’m sure those memories are upsetting,” Mendez said quietly. Patiently. “I know they are. That had to make it all the more shocking for you to find Marissa the way you did,” he said. “All that blood.”
“Terrible, terrible,” Zahn murmured, rocking, looking off to the side as he rubbed his hands. “So much blood. So much blood.”
Mendez wondered which scene he was replaying in his head: the murder of his mother or of Marissa Fordham. What had been the manner of his mother’s death? Had he used a knife? Could he have had some kind of mental break or flashback and gone after Marissa Fordham, somehow relating her to his mother, or maybe confusing the two women?
“Did you touch Marissa’s body?”
“No, no, no.” Zahn wagged his head. “I couldn’t. I didn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t.”
If that was true, that explained why he hadn’t realized the little girl was still alive. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t tried to find a pulse. He couldn’t bring himself to touch the blood.
Rudy Nasser stirred at last, his brain racing to catch up to the moment and rescue his mentor.
“This is starting to sound a lot like an interrogation,” he said. “Zander, I think you shouldn’t say any more until you talk to an attorney.”
“Why would he need an attorney?” Vince asked. “We don’t consider Zander a suspect.”
Nasser stood up, ready to give them the bum’s rush out the front gate. “Let’s keep it that way.”
Leone didn’t move. He was sitting a little sideways on his green vinyl chair, leaning against one arm on the chair back. He was a big man and took up a big space, and didn’t look like anyone was going to move him until he was good and ready.
“Is that what you want, Zander?” he asked. “Do you want us to leave? Or do you want to help us find who killed Marissa?”
“He doesn’t know who killed the woman,” Nasser said, getting his back up. “Why aren’t you out talking to people who had a reason to kill her? Why aren’t you out talking to her boyfriends?”
“You know who they are?” Mendez asked, poising pen against paper.
Nasser backtracked, looking away. “Well ... I ...”
“You don’t know,” Mendez said, his patience slipping away. “You’re just shooting your mouth off.”
“She didn’t buy that place with the proceeds of her art,” Nasser came back. “Someone was footing the bills.”
“But you don’t know who.”
Nasser didn’t answer.
“Mr. Nasser,” Vince said calmly. “If you have something useful to contribute here, then you should say so. If all you want is to cast aspersions on a woman who can’t defend herself in order to distract us, then you should shut up.”
“She wasn’t like that,” Zahn said, rocking himself harder. “She wasn’t like that.”
Nasser closed his eyes. “Zander, for God’s sake. She had a child. Who was the father? Where is he?”
“You don’t know. You don’t know her. You don’t know anything.”
“You know she wasn’t a saint.”
Zahn came to his feet suddenly and shoved Nasser backward with all his might, shouting, “YOU DON’T KNOW HER!”
Taken by surprise, Nasser staggered backward, tripped himself, and sat down hard on the crushed stone.
Zahn shook his hands as if they were wet, horrified that he had touched another living being.
“Oh my God. Oh my God,” he muttered. “I’m so sorry. So sorry. I have to go now. I have to go. It’s time to go.”
He turned and ran back to the house as he had run away from Marissa Fordham’s house that morning, with his arms straight down at his sides.
Mendez and Vince both got up from their chairs. Mendez glanced from the professor to his protégé struggling to his feet, and back at Leone. “If I had a kid at that college, I’d be asking for my money back.”
12
Kathryn Worth might have been a queen in a past life. She had that kind of bearing: straight, proud, regal, with a mane of golden hair swept back from her face. Disapproval was a statement made with an ice-blue stare down her patrician nose—a look that could make grown men cringe and cower.
In this life Kathryn Worth’s title was Assistant District Attorney. At forty-two, she had worked hard to achieve a position of prominence in what was still a male-dominated field—and she made no secret of her desire to go higher up the food chain. She was capable, clever, and ruthless, three traits that would take her far in her chosen profession.
All these qualities and her gender had landed her the plum role of lead prosecutor in the matter of State of California v. Peter Crane.
District Attorney Ed Benton, a man who had not prosecuted a case himself in twenty years, had quickly assigned the case to Kathryn Worth, who had an impressive résumé of wins in the courtroom. Appointing a woman to prosecute a heinous crime against a woman had won him praise in the press and in the minds of the broad base of liberal constituents of Oak Knoll.
Anne had no argument with Benton’s choice. She found Kathryn Worth to be smart and tough, and by no means intimidated by Peter Crane’s big-name defense attorneys.
She entered Worth’s office on the second floor of the county courts building and settled into the now-familiar ancient leather chair opposite the desk. As were many of Oak Knoll’s prominent buildings, the main county courts building had been constructed in the 1930s and was a gem of Spanish style with a twist of Art Nouveau thrown into the décor. The courtrooms and offices were full of heavy oak furniture in the Stickley mission style. The hallways boasted original Malibu-tile wainscoting and hand-painted borders. It was the kind of solid, substantial place that made a person believe Lady Justice was on his side.
Kathryn Worth smiled at her as she pulled off her oversize reading glasses. “Anne. How are you?”
“Fine, I hope,” Anne said. “I guess it depends on what you have to tell me.”
Worth made a little shrug, trying to minimize the significance of what she was about to say. “They’ve filed a motion to try to exclude some evidence. They’ll lose, of course.”
Anne sat up a little straighter. Her heart beat a little harder. “What evidence?”
“The tube of superglue.”
“On what grou
nds?” she demanded.
“They’re claiming it was planted.”
“He was going to put it in my eyes!” Anne said, the upset quickly building a head of steam inside her.
She flashed on the image as if it were a scene from a movie: Peter Crane looming over her, holding her down with a knee on her chest, his left hand pressing down on her throat, choking her. He fished for something with his right hand in his jacket pocket and came out with a small tube. The glue.
All of his victims had had their eyes and mouths glued shut.
“I saw it!” she exclaimed. “I knocked it out of his hand!”
“I know. And you’ll testify to that.”
“Not if they get it thrown out!”
“Anne, calm down,” the ADA said quietly. “There’s no way they’ll get it thrown out.”
“There must be some reason they think they can.”
“Michael Harrison thinks he could part the Red Sea if he needed to. It’s hubris. He’s full of shit. It’s just another tactic to delay the inevitable.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“You’re not telling me everything.”
Worth scowled. “You would have made a hell of a prosecutor yourself,” she muttered. “There are no useable fingerprints on the tube. I can’t explain why. Because the tube is small. Because one of the CSIs smudged it when they collected it. Who knows? It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me,” Anne said. She was beginning to feel sick to her stomach.
“Anne, you need to keep your eye on the big picture here. There is not a jury in Southern California that is going to acquit Peter Crane of kidnapping and trying to kill you. There’s no way. The glue isn’t even relevant. It’s not important.”
“It links him to the murders of Julie Paulson and Lisa Warwick. And to the attempted murder of Karly Vickers.”
“He’s not going on trial for those murders. He’s going on trial for what he did to you. And there is no way he’s getting out of it.”
“Then why am I so afraid he will?” Anne asked. Tears welled in her eyes. She pressed a hand across her mouth and felt assaulted by her own fear. Anger would follow—anger that she should be made to feel this way, then anger at her own inability to fight the feeling off.
