Natural Suspect (2001)

by Brad Meltzer

  "--cooperate."

  "And?"

  "Comply," Patrick added hastily.

  The clown looked at his dental probe, abruptly shook his head again, and returned it to the briefcase. But whatever relief Patrick might have momentarily felt at the disappearance of that device was replaced by a new horror when the clown removed a small, surgical steel scalpel from the case. He held it up to the light, admiring it.

  "Remarkable, these things. So precise you hardly feel the slice. Hey, doesn't that sound like an advertising agent's nifty slogan." The clown adopted a sonorous mock announcer's voice. "Acme Scalpels. The choice of surgeons all across the globe. Endorsed by ex-KGB, ex-SAVAK, and former Cali cartel operatives everywhere. So precise, you'll hardly feel the slice ..." He glanced at Patrick's face. "Or, at least, that's what I'm told. Haven't had the experience firsthand, you know." The clown approached the chair. He placed the blade of the scalpel against the last joint of Patrick's little finger on his left hand. When he pulled back, there was a small cut in the finger, and a thin red line of blood sprang up.

  It did hurt, like a paper cut, but Patrick didn't move.

  "Brave boy," the clown said, observing Patrick's face. "That couldn't have been pleasant."

  He moved the blade over Patrick's right hand and repeated the slice against the flesh of the thumb.

  Patrick thought he might pass out and in that second couldn't tell whether unconsciousness might or might not be preferable.

  The clown took the blade and moved it to Patrick's crotch. An involuntary whimper escaped from the bound man's mouth.

  "Yes," the clown said, as Patrick's head spun dizzily. "That's something to be afraid of, isn't it?"

  "Yes," Patrick coughed out. He was surprised he could make any noise at all, his terror was so complete.

  The clown hovered over him, huge, menacing.

  "So, now, on to the questions. Tell me what you know, Patrick. And tell me how you know it. ..."

  "Know about what?" Patrick started, but the clown merely waved the scalpel in the light so it glistened, then gestured toward Patrick's groin.

  "Please, don't insult my intelligence. You've been snooping around and digging about, trying to come up with some information that will help you get a job as a real newspaper man. You're ever so curious about the late Mr. Hightower. Now, Patrick, no First Amendment protections in here. Please answer. Immediately."

  Patrick nodded and started speaking rapidly. "I know that Arthur Hightower wasn't dead when they think he was because someone saw him at the Sweeney Hotel and I know that he was supposed to sign some papers which he didn't and that his lawyer knows a woman named Cordelia who is dating a guy I know which doesn't add up and ..." The words poured out of Patrick in a rush. A torrent of discombobulated information, some nugget of which he hoped would please the clown who was leaning toward him, listening carefully.

  "And . . . ," Patrick continued, only to stop abruptly, when the clown held up the scalpel.

  "Patrick," he said slowly, "you have been busy. More busy than you probably can imagine."

  The clown seemed pensive for an instant, as if digesting what Patrick had said. The would-be reporter simply held his breath, waiting for instructions.

  "Did you know," the clown said slowly, but then picking up the pace of his words, "that scientists believe that within the next couple of hundred years the human race will no longer be born with the small toes on our feet? They are genetic and evolutionary anachronisms, Patrick. A leftover from our time swinging about in trees. We don't use them for anything except a little bit of balance. So, like all else that Mother Nature finds obsolete, they are slowly but surely being phased out of the body picture. Did you know that?"

  "No," Patrick replied, shaking his head.

  "Well, now you do. And so, I suspect you won't miss yours. ..."

  With that, the clown suddenly bent down and seized Patrick's right foot. Before the surprised erstwhile reporter had time even to shout, the clown had taken the scalpel and neady severed the small toe from the foot. Pain shot through Patrick's leg, black hurt clouded his eyes, he wailed once and almost lost consciousness.

  The clown rose, holding the small toe.

  "I'll save this for you," he said. He reached over and opened the small blue plastic cooler, which was filled with ice, dropping the toe into the center. "As you can see, Patrick, there is room in the cooler for other digits and appendages."

  The clown stared hard into Patrick's eyes. "Don't pass out, Patrick. Your life depends on it."

  Patrick was in more pain than he'd ever known in his life. But the agony took a backseat to the fear that washed over him. He nodded.

  "They can do wonders with microsurgery, if you want the toe back . . . ," the clown said. "Do you remember John Wayne Bobbitt? Who had his, shall we say, unit, severed by his angry wife. They reattached that. This should make you think about the possibilities, Patrick." He held up his hand, stopping any response from Patrick, then reached down into his briefcase. He came up with a plastic bottle of hospital disinfectant, which he opened and squirted onto Patrick's maimed foot. "Now, Patrick," the clown said slowly, "I want you to calmly and carefully describe for me everything you did and heard leading up to your arrival at the Sweeney Hotel. Leave nothing out. Then I want you to pay special attention to accurately reporting what the half-drunk and extremely indiscreet attorney, Mr. Kellogg, so inappropriately told you at the Sweeney Hotel Bar. Think of this as your first real reporting assignment, Patrick. Who, what, where, when, and how. The mantra of the news profession. Safety is in the details, Patrick. Safety and what little chance you have to live through the next few minutes. Do you understand?"

  Patrick nodded. He swallowed as much of the pain and fear as he could, and then carefully began to relate everything he'd heard and done that had brought him so close to death at the hands of a clown.

  "Morgan?"

  No answer.

  "Morgy-Worgy?"

  No answer again, except a deep, satisfied snore.

  Sissy Hightower rose naked from the bed, leaving her husband asleep. She stepped away, turning back to stare down at Morgan the painters nude form. He had pasty, white skin, which looked to her as if it could use some time outdoors, and an unpleasantly flaccid paunch. She looked at the arms that had held her a short time earlier, and for a moment wondered if her husband had ever lifted anything heavier than a paintbrush. It was a good thing, she thought, that she had not demanded that he try to carry her over the threshold on their wedding night, because the weakling might have had a stroke. She thought the same might be true if he ever managed to extend the time of their love-making beyond thirty seconds.

  She walked briskly across the bedroom, pausing only to pick up a red silk robe from a crumpled heap on the floor where her husband had tossed it in a paroxysm of sexual excitement, part of the grand total procedure of two minutes that he'd managed that particular night. She pulled the robe tightly around her near-perfect form, pausing briefly to examine herself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror that did nothing but remind her that she was beautiful in every inch, nook and cranny.

  "Mirror, mirror," she whispered, "on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?"

  She smiled, and thought: Don't answer that question. No need to.

  At the door to the bedroom, she turned one more time to examine her husband. "At least you're rich," she said out loud. She took note of the empty brandy snifter that had been tossed aside, and the thick oriental carpet of their bedroom preventing it from breaking. Morgan Hightower let out another long, unpleasant snore, and shifted position. "Out like a light," she said. "A couple of drinks, a little bit of the old in-and-out, a shot-in-the-dark, and you're gone for ten, maybe twelve hours." It always astonished her how long the rich could sleep. It was as if having money made them tired. People with ambition, she thought, need less sleep.

  She closed the door behind her and walked through the artist's studio, pausing only briefly to examine the portrait of h
er on which Morgan was working. "Can't even get my tits right," she thought. She shook her head and kept walking. There was a small, spare bedroom down the hallway, which she entered. She walked immediately to the closet and removed a battered old leather suitcase. She took this to the bed and unzipped it. Inside there was a Ruger nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol, two spare clips of ammunition loaded with wad-cutters, a state-of-the-art IBM laptop computer, some spare clothes, two passports (one American, the other Venezuelan), approximately ten thousand dollars in U. S. currency and similar amounts of British pounds and Russian rubles, a small jewelry bag that contained an assortment of pearls, diamonds, and other precious stones, a half kilo of cocaine packed in see-through Baggies, and three paperback novels: Thomas Hardy s The Mayor of Caster bridge, Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, and John Fowles s The French Lieutenant's Woman.

  Sissy removed the computer and the Fowles novel.

  She took the computer to a small vanity desk, reached underneath, plugged the modem connection into the telephone line, and then sat back as the screen blinked on. It made a whirring noise as it warmed up. Sissy's fingers flew across the keyboard, and in a moment she was connected to the Internet. She typed in her password and discovered an e-mail message waiting for her. She clicked the cursor on the message and read it aloud:

  "I have acquired all the news that's not yet fit to print. Need instructions. Discard. Discard with prejudice. I make no recommendation. There are positives and negatives to both solutions. Please advise soonest."

  Sissy nodded and thought hard for a moment. She moved the cursor to reply and when the e-mail screen came up, typed: I have no problem with either solution as long as you believe the problem is effectively neutralized. Will rely upon your professional expertise guiding these situations.

  She did not sign the e-mail, but punched the button sending it on its electronic way.

  She leaned back in her chair, rocking idly, staring at the screen. Sissy felt she was in an odd state, slightly on the edge of anticipation, seeing things unfolding like a Japanese origami sculpture. She was accustomed to waiting, to being patient, which, she sometimes thought, was her strongest suit. Patience and the ability to stay within character, she reminded herself. She idly wondered why there weren't awards for performers such as herself, who managed to play a role successfully for months on end. The prize she expected was now well within sight.

  Sissy sighed. Morgy-Worgy's usual deeply inadequate lovemaking had left her restless, her nerves slightly tingling, as if electric currents were scorching her skin. She punched at the computer keyboard and slid effortlessly into a sadomasochism-and-bondage chat room, where she signed into the electronic conversation as Irma The Bitch. She spent a pleasant half hour taunting and teasing some of the other chat room members, finally making an assignation with some dweeb who promised to lick dog fecal matter off her boots. She told the man to meet her at midnight the following night at a biker's bar in the East Village and insisted the groveling guest wear a pink silk shirt, feather boa, and skintight white pants. She figured if the submissive showed up, the membership of the Village Vipers M. C. would kill him almost instantly.

  She signed off the S&M chat room and spent some time linked to a mathematics study group Web site operated by MIT. There were generally some interesting issues being discussed late at night by the next generation of scientists, but this, too, only ate at the hours, instead of filling them. Finally she signed off the computer and packed it back into her suitcase. She picked up the Fowles novel and read for another hour, admiring the complexity of the characters and the situation, as well as the dexterity with which the author slid between past and present. By then it was past midnight.

  Sissy stretched, like an old cat aroused from a nap. It was late enough to go to bed, though she had little desire to climb beneath the sheets next to her rich, untalented, obnoxious, and unattractive husband.

  The things a gal is forced to do to get ahead, she said to herself. This made her laugh, inwardly.

  She breathed out slowly. Might as well sleep, she thought. Need my energy to get up in the morning and be dumb again.

  Sissy replaced the novel next to the computer, zipped up the bag, and secreted it in the closet. Then she padded off down the hallway, each stride taking her away from who she actually was and back into who she was portraying, so that by the time she reached the bedroom she shared with Morgan Hightower, she felt almost as stupid as he so blindly thought she was.

  From where he sat in front of his computer screen, Trent Ballard could see that the snow was still swirling down onto the Manhattan streets. It made him shiver and reach over to his desktop to seize the steaming coffee cup he'd placed there. He took a long pull, tasting the bitterness in the drink. It is late, he told himself. It is cold. Wet. Maybe the love-struck and songwriters think the city is beautiful beneath newly fallen snow, but I know that it is merely an immense pain and that for days everything will be slushy, gray, and icy. He glanced over toward Buck, the mega-rabbit, who was merrily munching on a stalk of celery in his cage. "Even the lupine prefer warmth, huh, Buck?"

  The rabbit continued to eat, eyeing his master with undisguised contempt.

  "Well, soon enough," the prosecutor said. "Soon enough we'll have some of that nice Caribbean warmth." He grinned at the rabbit. "Buck, did I ever mention to you how much I enjoy a good rabbit stew?"

  The beast stared back, still chewing, as if trying to imply that he enjoyed fresh human.

  Ballard turned away, fixing his eyes on the computer screen. For the tenth time he read the e-mail letter that glowed in front of him. He warned himself to think carefully before composing a reply. As best as he could tell, everything in the murder case against Julia Hightower was going perfectly, and he didn't want to do anything that might upset that particular applecart. Certainly nothing that might imply that there was something larger going on than simply the highest profile prosecution he'd ever handled. And, he thought, perhaps the largest he would ever handle.

  Especially if everything worked out as well as he planned.

  Wording his reply carefully, Trent Ballard wrote a few words, then zipped them off into electronic nether-space.

  He closed down the computer, reminding himself that the day was fast approaching when he would have to trash this unit and replace it with something new which did not have all sorts of curious and unusual things printed in its electronic hard drive memory.

  Behind him, Buck finished the celery stalk. Ballard rose from his desk, oddly energized, feeling no need for sleep. He returned his eyes to the streets below his apartment window. What a mess, he thought. He wondered if anyone official ever anticipated a storm such as this, and whether they planned for it. He thought not. New York liked to react, not anticipate. This was not how he had run his life. And certainly not how he planned to run the rest of it, which, he felt, was starting to look quite nice.

  This satisfying reverie was interrupted by the sharp ring of his telephone.

  He was momentarily taken aback. It's late, he told himself. And no one is supposed to call me at my home.

  Trent reached for the telephone with a sense of disquiet creasing the self-congratulatory image he'd concocted.

  "Yes?" he answered abruptly.

  The voice on the other end was familiar and surprising. He smiled.

  "I didn't think we'd be talking so soon," he said.

  Chapter 4.

  Growing up in Queens, Devin didn't get much practice dealing with the dysfunctional rich, but she did learn how to change a tire. Not that the idea of switching out a flat on the side of the Long Island Expressway in the middle of a blinding snowstorm thrilled her. On the other hand, it beat the hell out of waiting forever for the Auto Club to show up or, worse, trudging back to the Hightower estate and asking for help.

  She exchanged the high heels she'd worn to court for a pair of thick-soled boots she kept under the seat along with a first-aid kit, a flashlight, and a can of Mace. Pausing to ta
ke a tissue from her purse, she proceeded to blow her nose with a distinctly unladylike honk. She couldn't begin to imagine what had come over her. It wasn't like her to feel so sorry for herself that she gave in to tears. She hoped it was a bad case of trial nerves and not an incipient nervous breakdown. Fortunately, insanity wasn't catching. If it was, after her exposure to the Hightowers, she'd end up in the loony bin for sure.

  Tonight had been the last straw. Ever since the day Julia Hightower showed up at her office, it seemed to Devin as if she'd been making excuses for one Hightower or another. At first she'd felt so lucky to be given the chance to defend someone like Julia Hightower that she'd practically been grateful to breathe the same air as her wealthy client. During their first meeting she'd had to keep reminding herself to act cool and not stare. It was hard. Just one of Julias diamonds probably cost more than Devin's father had made driving a city bus his whole life. No doubt about it, the money had done a number on her head.

  Pulling up the collar of her coat, Devin opened the door and climbed out of the Toyota into the snow. Maybe it was the cold air, but she suddenly felt more confident and clearheaded than she had in weeks. Lately she'd been thrown by the trappings--the money, the media, the fact that her mother was calling every night all excited to report that she'd seen her on TV. Tonight had helped her finally see what should have been obvious all along. Except for the fact that Julia's checks actually cleared the bank, the Hightowers were no different from any of her other clients.

  As a matter of fact, they were probably worse. When you came right down to it, what was she dealing with except a drunk, a slut, and a stupendously bad artist married to a woman with an IQ half her bra size? Even if she didn't manage to get the mother off, at the very least Devin figured she'd be able to get them a slot on Jerry Springer.

  "Who knows?" she thought to herself as she turned the key in the lock to open up the trunk. "Maybe he'll do a theme show: Rich women who sleep with their gardeners."

  She took the jack and some other tools out of the trunk. If she hadn't seen it with her own eyes she would never have believed it. No way in a million years could she have dreamed up the naked little man and his potbelly. She suppressed a shudder and did her best to drive the offending image from her brain. At least when she'd given in to a moment of weakness it had been with Trent Ballard, who was at least a member of the same species . . .