Natural Suspect (2001)

by Brad Meltzer

  Devin thought for just a moment. "Aunt," she said.

  "Ah, nuts," said the watchman. "Got an eraser?"

  In water as cold as the East River in February, a human being, even if he doesn't drown, will be dead of hypothermia in around seven minutes. But that leaves out the sludge factor. Ever notice how English Channel swimmers smear themselves with Vaseline? This is not just product placement or a sensual thing. The petroleum locks in body heat like an external layer of artificial fat.

  So it was when Patrick Roswell went flailing and groaning through the surface. A disgusting goo--the spillage from archaic tugboats and abattoirs in Queens and asphalt plants up in the Bronx--coated him from head to toe, sealed him in a quasi-amniotic slime. Say what you want about pollution--it saved Patrick's life, bought him just enough time so that when the boat he'd seen from the deck of Starry Night reached him, he was still alive--just barely. He'd stopped his kicking and his screaming. He was utterly inert and had all but given up on breathing.

  A cool, blue-tinged euphoria had mercifully descended on him. Death, he somehow understood, could be sweeter than life. When the grappling hook seized him by the armpit, and he felt himself being yanked and lugged, water streaming off him as if he were a breaching porpoise, he imagined he was being shlepped to Heaven.

  He wasn't. He was being dragged into the cockpit of a boat, where several excited men were trying to determine whether he was still alive, and what the hell they should do with him. A hand felt for his jugular. Another pressed on his belly; he vaguely felt himself vomiting water. In Patricks comalike state, he couldn't speak, couldn't get his eyes to open-- yet he could hear quite clearly every word that was said.

  "The thing to do," a baritone announced, "is strip him naked and get in bed with him."

  "You do it, Joe," said another man. "I hear you like that kind of thing."

  "Don't knock it if you haven't tried it."

  "Har, har har!"

  Vaguely, Patrick thought, I'm dying here, and they're making gay jokes. . . .

  Then he heard a woman say, "What's all the commotion?"

  Everyone tried to explain at once.

  The woman said, "Oh, my God! Bring him down, bring him down."

  Patrick felt himself being carried. Felt himself being stripped and laid into a bed. He sensed an enveloping warmth, gradually understood that someone was lying next to him, that arms were wrapped around him and that a tummy was pressed against his own. He had no idea how long they lay like that. But over time he grew warm enough to shiver. Then his teeth began to chatter, and a little after that he started to moan. Something like consciousness began to dawn again. His eyes still closed, he sobbed.

  The woman next to him stroked his head and said, "It's all right now. It's all right."

  Patrick was slightly conscious now. Conscious enough to realize that he'd nearly died. Conscious enough to know that he was naked and in bed with a naked woman. For some reason he thought about the tragedy and triumph of the salmon. The chilly, desperate swim upstream to spawn. The sex that meant both death and final victory. He'd done his swim, by God. He'd earned some ecstasy. Tentatively, he made a small thrust with his hips. His bedmate did not recoil, and he was heartened. Still, there was the matter of confidence. Or the lack thereof.

  Growing less certain even as he grew more aroused, Patrick thought, Maybe if she thinks I'm in a comay she'll let me. . .

  He kept his eyes closed. He moaned as he rolled on top of her. The ruse was unnecessary. Julia Hightower, feeling more alive than she had felt in ages, would have gratefully accepted the advances of this needy stranger no matter what.

  Chapter 9.

  For the first time in recent memory, Julia Hightower did not feel the need for a drink. Even if she'd wanted one, she wouldn't have had the strength to call for it.

  Julia rolled onto her side and studied the young man the captain of the Silver Lady VI had dragged from the icy clutches of the East River. Her aquatic Casanova had passed out after their first savage coupling and she had not learned his name. When he awoke again, Julia lost interest in everything but his questing hands, searching tongue, and thrusting lance.

  Patrick moaned and opened his eyes slowly. Julia ran a finger along his chest.

  "You saved me," he said.

  "I'd say you've paid me back in full," Julia replied. And, in truth, Patrick's enthusiastic lovemaking had thawed out Julia Hightower as much as she had thawed him out.

  "Where am I?"

  "Safe and sound aboard my yacht."

  Patrick sat up. "It feels like your yacht is moving."

  "It is, my love. It's speeding us to a warm and indolent land where we can spend our days basking in the hot sun and our nights . . . Well, I'll let you figure that out."

  The curtains were drawn in the stateroom and the lights were off.

  While he was in the throes of passion, Patrick had not gotten a good look at the tigress whose bed he shared. Now that his eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark, his rescuer was starting to look familiar.

  "Do I know you?" he asked.

  "Why do you want to know?" Julia asked nervously.

  Patricks brow furrowed as he put the woman's features together with a name the way he put answers to clues when he did the daily crossword.

  "Julia Hightower!"

  "And, if I were?" Julia answered tremulously, terrified that her merman would flee their aquarium of love once he discovered that he'd engaged in sexual congress with a notorious alleged murderess.

  Patrick took Julia's hands in his. "Then I might be able to help you."

  Julia was puzzled. "Help me how?"

  "To clear your name."

  "How can you do that?"

  "I've been investigating your husband's murder and I've uncovered some very disturbing facts."

  "Why would you be investigating Arthur's death? Are you a detective?"

  "No, I'm a reporter."

  Julia's mouth opened in terror.

  "Oh, no, you don't have to worry. I'm not a real reporter, yet. Although I hope to be, once I break this story. Actually, I sold ads for the Gazette, before they fired me. I guess it would be more accurate to say that I'm an aspiring reporter. In any event, I believe I've uncovered a conspiracy to frame you for Arthur High tower's murder."

  "A conspiracy? But who . . . ?"

  "I'm not certain, but you have to be very careful. The people involved in this will stop at nothing. They've chopped off my toe. ..."

  "Your toe!" Julia echoed in horror.

  Patrick nodded. "And they tried to drown me when I saw them disposing of Joe Kelloggs severed head."

  "Joe! Headless!"

  Patrick squeezed Julias trembling hands. "Dont worry," he assured her. "We'll get to the bottom of this."

  "What do you mean we? "

  "Working together, we can solve this mystery, prove your innocence, and win me a Pulitzer prize."

  "The only thing I'm going to work on is my tan," Julia said sadly. "I'm going to Panga Nue, where it's always summer and the islanders don't extradite."

  She ran her hand through Patrick's hair and kissed him passionately.

  "Forget about this foolishness and come away with me."

  "You can't run."

  "What do I have to go back to? A cold and drafty house, two ungrateful children, and a future on death row?"

  "Everyone will think you're guilty if you run. They'll stop looking for the real killer. You've got to turn the yacht around before the police find out you tried to flee."

  "Not on your life."

  Patrick took Julia in his arms and felt her heart beat strongly against his chest.

  "We just met, Julia. I don't want to lose you."

  And this was true. Kissing Devin McGee had been pretty neat, but Patrick had never lived through a night of love like the one he had experienced with Julia Hightower. Granted, his experience was limited, and the circumstances of this tryst were a tad unusual, but Julia's sexual acrobatics had made h
is hair stand on end and his toes curl--all nine of them.

  "What about the difference in our ages, my love?"

  "Love knows no boundaries, my sweet."

  "Oh ..." Julia paused. "I don't even know your name."

  "It's Patrick. Patrick Roswell."

  "Oh, Patrick," Julia moaned.

  Patrick felt Julia's breasts swell and he heard her sigh.

  "You're not alone anymore, Julia. You have me by your side. And, together, we'll lick this thing."

  Tm frightened," Julia said as her hand snaked between them. "Hold me tight."

  Patricks eyes glazed over and his breath came in short gasps.

  "Tell me once more about this licking thing," Julia whispered.

  Snow was falling hard when Devin drove away from Miller Tool and Die, and she had to concentrate on the road. That's why she did not notice the car that followed her as soon as she pulled away from the curb. When Devin wasn't concentrating on the road, she was trying to figure out her next move. There was one thing she knew that she had to do: she had to stop court from reconvening. It looked as if Julia was on the lam. If she did not show up, Judge Hardy would revoke her bail and she would become a fugitive. Any jury would look at flight as a sign of guilt and Julia could kiss her chances of an acquittal good-bye. But how could she stop the trial? It suddenly occurred to her that she knew someone who might be persuaded to help her. There was a big risk involved, but she decided to take it.

  Devin drove to Trent Ballard's apartment house in the hope that Trent would agree to set over the case until she could contact Julia and try to talk her into coming back. If that failed, Devin was prepared to go to Judge Hardy and ask for a mistrial. She would inform the judge about her tryst with Trent at the convention and claim that there was a conflict of interest if Trent remained on the case. She would tell the judge that Trent's last-minute appointment had surprised her and it had taken her a while to work out the ethical implications. There was a danger that Trent would want his quickie with Devin becoming general knowledge around the courthouse. Bragging about his hot-tub adventure would help Trent heighten his reputation as a lady-killer. But Devin hoped that Trent would be enough of a gentleman to agree to the set over in chambers, so the press would not learn the reason for it.

  Devin found a parking spot across from Trent's apartment. Devin ran through the snow and was covered with flakes by the time she reached the shelter of the lobby. Trent's apartment was on the top floor.

  Devin took the elevator up. She was surprised to find the door to Trent's apartment open. The assistant D. A. was sitting on the couch staring at something. Devin entered the apartment.

  "Trent?"

  He looked up and Devin could see that the D. A. was scared.

  "They killed him."

  Devin followed his gaze and her mouth opened in horror. There was a lighting fixture in the center of Trent's living room and Buck, his pet rabbit, was swinging back and forth from it. Pinned to Buck's chest was a note: you've been warned.

  When they were in the hot tub, Trent had told Devin about Buck. His affection for the fluffy animal had seduced her and, in the heat of passion, he'd actually called her his "wittle wabbit."

  Devin closed and locked the hall door, then sat beside Trent on the sofa. She put an arm around his shoulders and knew that his sorrow was real when he made no attempt to grope her.

  "Who did this?" Devin asked.

  "I've been a fool, Devin," Trent said. "I've gotten in over my head."

  "Does this have anything to do with Arthur Hightowers murder?"

  Trent nodded. Devin pushed Trent away, held him by his shoulders, and looked him in the eye.

  "What have you done?"

  Trent made eye contact for a moment. Then his head dropped.

  "I can't tell you."

  "Why?"

  "If it got out, my career would be over and I could be putting you in danger."

  "Trent, I came here to talk to you about Julia's case. There are a lot of things that you don't know. I'm certain Julia was framed for Arthur's murder, but I don't know who is behind the frame. If we put what you know together with what I know, we might be able to break this case wide open."

  Trent considered what she'd said. Then he sighed.

  "The day it was announced that I was taking over the case, Marilyn Hightower approached me while I was walking Buck. I had no idea who she was, but she was gorgeous, sexy, and had nothing but nice things to say about Buck. One thing led to another and we ended up here.

  "While we were . . . you know, she wheedled out of me the fact that I was trying the Hightower case. She asked if she could see the evidence. I resisted at first, but she broke me down. I snuck her into my office at two in the morning. When she saw the autopsy photos, Marilyn grew faint, or she pretended to be faint. When I came back with a glass of water, she seemed to be better.

  "On the way back to my place, Marilyn revealed that she was Arthur Hightowers daughter. I was stunned. She said that no one needed to know that she had been alone with the evidence and she hinted that she had done something to it. I knew I would be through if I told anyone.

  "Last night, Marilyn visited me again. She said that she wanted me to do something when the trial resumed." "What?"

  "I dont know. I told her I didn't want to know what it was and I wouldn't do anything more. She told me to think about it. Then she left. A short time later, someone called and said they had absolute proof that your client killed Arthur Hightower. We arranged to meet, but no one showed up. When I got back here ..."

  Trent could not go on.

  "Do you think Marilyn is behind this?"

  "Who else could be?"

  "I think that there are two groups at work."

  Devin told Trent about the cross-dressing assassin who was trying to help Julia and some of the other things she'd learned.

  "So you think the people who are trying to keep Morgan and Marilyn from inheriting killed Buck to scare me away from helping Marilyn?"

  "I don't know. Marilyn isn't in this alone. I'm certain of that. The people she's working with could have killed Buck to force you to do what Marilyn wants."

  Trent was about to say something when he noticed the knob on the hall door turning. He put a finger to his lips and crossed the room quietly. Then he wedged a chair under the doorknob. In the silence, Trent and Devin could hear someone picking the lock. Trent gestured toward his bedroom. As soon as they were inside, Trent locked the bedroom door and opened the window. There was a fire escape outside it. Devin ducked her head and crawled through the window. She was hit immediately by a blast of freezing air that rocked her backward. Trent followed and closed the window just as the front door shattered. He pointed down and Devin began descending the ice-coated iron steps. Her foot slipped and she started to fall. Trent's strong fingers clamped onto her arm and arrested her flight. She took one deep breath then started down again.

  Trent was right behind her, urging Devin to move faster. When they were halfway down, the window of Trent's apartment exploded and slivers of glass mixed with the falling snow. One large shard just missed Devin's cheek because she flung herself against the ladder. Someone shouted, "There they are!" and Devin looked up to see two men in pea-coats and ski masks racing down the ladder after them.

  Devin sped up her descent and widened the distance between her and her pursuers. The alleyway at the side of Trent's building was only a story away. They would be able to drop into the snow in a moment more and race to her car. Relief spread through her, then instandy turned to fear. The alley dead-ended against a building and someone was blocking the opening to the street.

  When they were sated, Julia and Patrick lay side by side with their hands entwined.

  "I can't believe that Arthur was the victim of a conspiracy," Julia said.

  "Conspiracies do exist, Julia, and you're enmeshed in one."

  "But who . . . ?"

  "Your son, Morgan, for one."

  "Morgan!" Julia laughed.
"He doesn't have the brains or the energy to conspire against someone."

  "You may have underestimated Morgan. He's the one who gave the order to throw me overboard from the Starry Night"

  "But why would he do that?"

  "I saw him tossing Joe Kelloggs head into the river."

  "Morgan murdered Joe?"

  "No. He might have given the order but I'm certain that a seven-foot-tall maniac in a clown outfit, who likes to torture people, killed Kellogg."

  "But why?"

  "Have you ever heard of Robert Rutledge?"

  Julia frowned. "That name sounds familiar, but. . . no."

  "Cordelia, Morgan's mistress, is his personal assistant."

  "Morgan has a mistress?"

  "And an illegitimate child, I suspect."

  "Hmm. Maybe there's more to Morgan than I thought."

  "Rutledge is the head of Hammer, Crain and Rutledge, a Wall Street firm that made an unsuccessful attempt to take over Hightower Oil. The attempt failed because Arthur blocked it. With Arthur dead, I think Rutledge is trying again. Kellogg was Hammer Crain's attorney. If you're convicted, Morgan and Marilyn inherit everything, including control of Hightower Oil. I think Kellogg was trying to get Morgan and Marilyn to sell that control to Rutledge. Cordelia, Morgan's mistress, started working for Rutledge. I think Morgan talked Cordelia into being his mole in Hammer Crain."

  Something Patrick had said started Julia thinking. "From what you've told me, Morgan and Marilyn have the best motives for killing Arthur and framing me. One thing that links me to Arthur's murder is the pearl necklace that he had in his hand when we found him. But I'm not the only one who had a string of pearls like the one Arthur was clutching: Morgan and Marilyn had identical pearl necklaces."

  A determined look took hold of Julia's features. She stood up and called to the captain.

  "Turn around. We're heading back to shore."

  Patrick smiled. "I knew you wouldn't quit and run."

  "I'm convinced that Morgan or Marilyn murdered Arthur," she said.

  "All we have to do is find out which of them is missing a pearl necklace and we'll have our killer."

  Sissy Hightower lived at the Hightower estate, but she kept an apartment in Brooklyn Heights under the name of Jacqueline Dupre. Sissy had told Morgan that she was visiting a girlfriend in the city and would sleep at her apartment. Morgan had not seemed to care. In fact, he'd encouraged her to spend as much time as she wanted, which was okay by Sissy, because she could take him for only so long. Marrying Morgan had been a means to an end, but she'd paid a big price. Thank God, Morgan had almost no sex drive. When they did make love it gave new meaning to the idea of having a quickie.