Sidney Sheldon's the Silent Widow

by Sidney Sheldon

  If he was waiting for a reaction from Nikki, he was disappointed.

  ‘That’s where all these stupid “zombie” stories came from,’ he went on. ‘The DNA we found didn’t come from a living human but from a corpse. Brandon’s corpse. So if you figure you’re protecting him, you’re not. The only person you’re protecting is the murderer.’

  ‘Firstly, I’m not protecting any murderer,’ Nikki insisted, defiantly. ‘So your partner Johnson can go digging for that needle as hard as he likes. And secondly, you should let him know that I’m well aware of how to handle myself in a courtroom. I’ve been called as an expert witness many times in the past, and I don’t bully easily.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t,’ Goodman said, a clear note of admiration in his voice.

  ‘No offense to you,’ Nikki went on, glad that the conversation had moved on from the subject of Brandon. She’d made her decision on that score and having begun in the lie it was too late to turn back now. ‘But more than once I’ve had to testify against police officers. Your friends in the drug squad, the guys sticking pins in Derek Williams’ picture? Well, guess what? Williams is right when he calls those guys corrupt.’

  ‘Some of them, maybe,’ Goodman admitted.

  ‘Many of them,’ said Nikki. ‘Too many.’

  Somewhere in the back of Goodman’s mind, a penny was slowly dropping.

  ‘I’ve been an expert witness …’

  ‘I’ve had to testify against police …’

  ‘I’ve seen your colleagues stand up in court and lie through their teeth to protect each other,’ Nikki warmed to her theme, conveniently forgetting that she, too, had just lied about Brandon Grolsch. ‘Doug told me countless horror stories about police planting evidence, framing addicts and small-time dealers to get convictions, and all the while the big suppliers went free. Derek Williams is not the only one with mixed feelings about you guys.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ Goodman held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. ‘I get it. But try to remember, I’m not the enemy, OK?’

  ‘I know that.’ Nikki softened. ‘I never thought you were. I only hired Derek because I needed some answers. And because I was getting tired of being treated like a suspect.’

  Goodman got the check and again refused to let Nikki split it. Afterwards he walked her to her car.

  ‘Be careful,’ he repeated. ‘Until we catch this guy. Please be careful.’

  ‘I will,’ said Nikki, adding, tongue in cheek, ‘Derek Williams gave me the same advice earlier.’

  Goodman scowled. ‘Williams wants your money, Nikki. I don’t. Remember that, when you’re thinking about who to trust.’

  As he drove off, his parting words rang in Nikki’s ears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The town of Chowchilla, in Madera County California, had only two features deemed interesting enough to warrant a mention on Wikipedia. The first was that the town’s name itself meant ‘Murderers’, a reference to the notoriously warlike Chaushila tribe of Native Americans who first settled there. And the second was the presence of Valley State Prison, formerly a women-only institution, but now home to almost a thousand male inmates.

  Classified as ‘medium security’, from the outside the low, squat quadrangle of concrete buildings ringed with barbed wire and electric fences appeared forbidding enough to make any visitor wonder what a ‘high-security’ prison might look like.

  Jerry Kovak hadn’t seen the outside of Valley State in six years, not since the day he first arrived here, transferred from an overcrowded hellhole of a prison in LA County. Jerry had his pal Mick Johnson to thank for his move, and for many other things too. Jerry’s waste-of-space attorneys had told him not to squander his time on another ‘hopeless’ appeal – as if he had anything better to do, stuck in here! But Mick Johnson hadn’t given up and had helped Jerry lodge the paperwork. Without it, or some other kind of miracle, Jerry would never see the outside of Valley State’s walls or anything beyond them until he was carried out in a coffin.

  Shuffling into the visitors’ room, an attempt at a cheerful space with brightly colored walls and a play area for children in one corner, Jerry took a seat and waited. He’d hoped his daughter might have made it today. It was almost six months since he’d last seen Julie. But she had three kids of her own now, and a husband who disapproved of Jerry, plus Chowchilla was a four-hour drive from LA. You can’t expect too much, he told himself, doing his best to mask his disappointment when Mick Johnson waddled in alone. She has her own life to live now.

  Taking the seat opposite Jerry’s, Mick handed over the few meager gifts he’d been allowed to bring: a fishing magazine, a book of Sudoku and some herbal tablets supposed to help with joint pain. ‘How are you, man? You look good.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jerry. ‘I’m doin’ OK, considering.’

  This was an obvious lie. When Mick Johnson and Jerry Kovak first met as junior detectives, Jerry had been a seriously handsome guy. A football player, super-athletic, with the kind of chiseled jock’s features that made him every woman’s type. But despite his great looks and endless opportunity, Jerry had been a one-woman guy, utterly devoted to his wife Marianne and their kid, Julie.

  That was fifteen years ago now. They’d all aged since then. But whereas Mick and the rest of the guys had simply grown fatter and balder, Jerry had withered like a tree in the desert. Stooped and frail, his skin as cracked and dry as parchment, his eyes rheumy and red, he had become an old man. Arthritic. Broken. Pathetic, in the true sense of the word.

  It was the year he turned forty-five that it all came crashing down, the blows raining on poor Jerry Kovak like hailstones from a vengeful heaven. First Marianne got sick. Then, really quickly, faster than anyone expected, she died. Mick would never forget Jerry during those days, howling like a wounded dog, wracked with a tormenting grief beyond anything that Mick had ever witnessed.

  He should have taken time off then. Some sort of compassionate leave, time to process things, to grieve in private with his daughter. But things were different in those days. Jerry had not long transferred into the drug squad, the first Pole in an almost entirely Irish division, and that was a big deal. Those guys didn’t go home and cry. They were fighting a war, and the war didn’t stop because somebody’s wife had dropped dead of cancer at forty-two. Besides, Jerry didn’t want to stop work. He needed the distraction, he told Mick at the time, not to mention the money. ‘It’s only me and Julie now. I have to provide for her.’

  So Detective Kovak had gone back on the streets, and at first he seemed OK. But as his grief shifted through despair, to denial and into anger, things began to change. Jerry would start losing his temper at colleagues, flying off the handle over the smallest thing. In an argument over a parking spot, he threw a punch at a junior officer, breaking the poor kid’s nose. That was all handled on the down low, and Jerry apologized. But out on the streets, in his daily interactions with the junkies and dealers and hookers and informants that were the bread and butter of drug squad life, he became a different person. Hardened. Battle weary, yet at the same time, looking for a fight.

  Eventually, he found one. Kelsey James, a lowlife, piece of shit pimp and part-time crack dealer from Watts, gave Jerry some false information that led to the collapse of his first big case. Jerry drove straight from the courthouse to find James, pulled him out of his car in broad daylight and beat him to a bloody pulp on the street. For three weeks the boy was in intensive care, and for a while there it looked like he might not make it. In the end, he lived – more was the pity as far as Mick Johnson was concerned – but the doctors said he would spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair and need constant nursing care to be able to perform even the most basic functions.

  Jerry was charged with aggravated assault and attempted murder. The boys all rallied round in court – it was in the line of duty. Kelsey looked like he was reaching for a weapon. Jerry could have used his firearm but he didn’t. He showed restraint. But then Kelsey James’s
mama showed up, sobbing and wailing, and his sisters yelling blue murder about police brutality and what a ‘good boy’ their dealing, scumbag brother was, how Jerry had robbed him of his bright future.

  Mick Johnson attended the trial every day. He could see the judge – a liberal, bleeding heart woman – buying every word of the James family’s baloney. It made Johnson’s stomach turn, listening to them lie through their teeth and blacken a good man’s name. But there was nothing he could do about it. Clearly, Jerry needed some other line of defense, some sob story of his own to soften the judge’s heart.

  Luckily, he had one. Diminished responsibility, due to his mental state after Marianne’s death. His attorney was doing a pretty good job with it too, bringing little Julie up on to the stand to tell everyone how much she loved her dad and how hard losing her mom had been on the family. Character witnesses from Julie’s school and soccer team spoke up for Jerry. Even the local pastor came and sang his praises.

  But then that bitch Nikki Roberts took the stand. And just like that, Jerry Kovak’s case unraveled, and with it his future. Dr Roberts was called as an expert witness, to talk about the psychological effects of grief. Could grief explain what Jerry had done? Could it excuse or mitigate a sudden, compulsive display of violence? Was it at least possible that Jerry Kovak was not in his right mind when he attacked Kelsey James?

  No.

  No.

  No.

  ‘Doctor’ Roberts never wavered in her damning judgment of poor Jerry. In her expert opinion, he showed zero signs of mental incapacity. His attack was premeditated, not compulsive or spontaneous. His motives, according to Nikki, were racist and selfish, his actions rooted in rage rather than grief. Mick Johnson could do nothing but sit and watch helplessly as this young slip of a girl who knew nothing about Jerry, and even less about the dangers cops like him faced on the streets every day at the hands of the Kelsey Jameses of this world, annihilated any hope his friend had of clemency.

  Jerry Kovak was found guilty and sentenced to twenty-five years in jail.

  Twice he’d appealed his sentence. Twice, Nikki Roberts had come forward voluntarily to re-state her case: that there should be no mercy for Jerry, no compassion, no ‘special circumstances’. ‘Justice for Kelsey’ was all that mattered, apparently. Nikki Roberts had gone out of her way to ensure that Jerry Kovak would spend the rest of his days behind bars.

  Mick Johnson would never forgive her for that.

  Smiling at his old friend, doing his best to project an optimism that he didn’t feel, Mick told Jerry he’d filed his appeal.

  ‘You think we have a shot?’ Jerry asked querulously.

  ‘Sure we do,’ said Mick. ‘But these things take time. We won’t hear anything back for at least six weeks. And that’s only the initial processing.’

  ‘I got time,’ Jerry said wryly. ‘That’s the one thing I’ve still got. So tell me, how’s your case going? You said it was knife murders, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Johnson muttered. ‘It’s going OK, I guess. Slower than I’d like, but I think we’re closing in.’

  He’d made a conscious decision not to tell Jerry about Dr Nikki Roberts’ connection to the Zombie Killings, or to share any of the lurid details about the case. At this point, he was certain that Nikki was involved in both murders, and the death of her husband. But he needed to prove it. Only once he had her safely behind bars and suffering would he share the good news with Jerry. Maybe then, at last, the courts would throw out her earlier, damning testimony? Either way, Mick wasn’t about to raise poor Jerry’s hopes again only to dash them. So far he had no concrete evidence. Shit, he hadn’t even been able to convince his own partner that Dr Nikki Roberts wasn’t the saintly, butter-wouldn’t-melt do-gooder she pretended to be, but was in fact a vengeful woman, certainly capable of premeditated spite, and very possibly of serial murder.

  For the rest of Johnson’s visit, the two men talked about nothing much. Baseball, old friends from the drug squad days. Mick promised to come back next month, and to try to talk Julie into coming with him. He had no children of his own, but it shocked and saddened him to see a man’s only daughter turn her back on her dad the way Julie Kovak had with Jerry. That was another thing Nikki Roberts had stolen from his friend – his relationship with his daughter. Julie had been thirteen when her father was put away. Too much time had passed, too much distance.

  It was all such a waste.

  Halfway back to LA, the air con broke in Johnson’s car. He opened all the windows, but still found himself driving drenched in sweat, his shirt stuck to his flabby back and his clammy palms sliding on the wheel as he weaved through the lanes of traffic. By the time Goodman called he was panting like an overheated dog. It was like taking a call in a sauna.

  ‘What?’ Johnson snapped.

  ‘Where are you?’ Annoyed, Goodman mirrored his curt tone.

  ‘Driving.’

  ‘Driving where?’

  ‘Jesus, what is this?’ said Johnson. ‘If you must know, I’m driving back from Valley State Prison.’

  ‘Visiting your friend Detective Kovak, I assume?’ Goodman said slyly. ‘Well, what a coincidence. It so happens I’m sitting here looking at the transcripts from Kovak’s trial. And you’ll never guess who popped up as the prosecution’s key expert witness.’ Goodman sounded triumphant. ‘I had dinner with Nikki Roberts last night.’

  ‘Course you did,’ muttered Johnson bitterly.

  ‘And she mentioned something about her court experience,’ Goodman continued, ignoring him. ‘For some reason it resonated, so I did a little digging and whaddaya know? Turns out you two do have history.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ said Johnson gruffly. ‘You can lose the sarcasm.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Goodman asked accusingly.

  ‘Nothing to tell,’ said Johnson.

  ‘“Nothing to tell”? Oh, come on! This is why you hate her, isn’t it? Because she testified against your best friend.’

  ‘No,’ said Johnson slowly. ‘I hate her because she’s a spiteful bitch. And because I happen to believe she orchestrated the murders of three innocent people.’

  ‘You should have recused yourself from the investigation, Mick,’ Goodman said angrily.

  ‘Bullshit. Why?’

  ‘Because you’re predisposed against her!’

  ‘Oh, I am, am I? Well, what about you?’ Johnson shot back defensively. ‘You’ve been trying to get the woman into bed since day one! You had dinner with her last night, for Christ’s sake! Doesn’t that make you equally biased the other way?’

  ‘No,’ Goodman snapped. ‘And for your information, I have not been trying to get her into bed. I’ve been trying to get close to her, to win her trust. There’s a difference.’

  Johnson snorted derisively, but deep down he was shaken. He hadn’t expected his partner to make the Kovak connection. Now that he had, Johnson would have to tread even more carefully around Nikki Roberts.

  ‘I don’t suppose you got “close” enough last night to get her to stop lying about Grolsch and come clean?’ he asked Goodman, knowing this was the one weak spot in his partner’s otherwise unwavering faith in Dr Roberts.

  ‘I’m still pushing,’ Goodman admitted. ‘But brace yourself for this my friend: I did learn we have a third wheel on this case. It seems your lack of trust in Nikki Roberts is reciprocated.’

  ‘Reciprocated?’ Johnson mocked him. ‘That the sort of big word they teach you at Harvard, is it?’

  ‘She’s hired Derek Williams, Mick,’ Goodman said bluntly.

  Johnson swerved, narrowly missing a semi in the left-hand lane. From the other end of the line Goodman heard a wild screeching of brakes, followed by a stream of the sort of language no one’s grandmother ought to hear.

  When Johnson finally came back on the line he sounded winded, like he was gasping for breath. ‘You are kidding me, right?’

  ‘I wish I were,’ Goodman sighed. ‘I followed her to his office yesterday.’
>
  ‘That fat bastard …’ Johnson muttered. It was the pot calling the kettle black, but Goodman decided this was no time to quibble over insults.

  ‘According to Nikki, she hired him to come up with some answers. Because we haven’t given her any. And because she’s tired of being treated like a suspect.’

  We’ve given her plenty of answers, thought Johnson. But she doesn’t like them because they all point back to her.

  His mind scrambled to process this new information. Why had Dr Roberts hired Derek Williams? If Johnson was right, and Nikki was behind these killings herself, then it made no sense for her to hire a PI. Unless she’s using him to dig up dirt on us? So she can discredit our investigation and get away with murder. Literally.

  His head started to swim. Part of him wanted to share these doubts with Goodman. But his partner already thought he was biased against Nikki. This latest theory would be the icing on the cake. On the other hand, he couldn’t sit by and do nothing while she instructed the appalling Williams to trample all over their investigation like a goddamn elephant.

  ‘We have to stop him,’ he told Goodman.

  ‘At last, something we agree on,’ Lou replied. ‘The question is how?’

  Both men were silent for a moment. Then Johnson said, ‘One of us needs to pay him a visit.’

  ‘Not one of us,’ said Goodman. ‘Both of us. We’ll talk about it when you get back here.’

  Goodman hung up and began placing the transcripts of the Kovak trial back in the file.

  So. It looked as though he and Johnson were partners again, albeit uneasy ones. It was a small step in the right direction. He remembered his father’s old advice about keeping your friends close but your enemies closer. Lou Goodman had always tried to live by those words.

  They were one of the reasons he was still alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Derek Williams flipped awkwardly through the latest copy of Angelino Magazine, sneaking regular glances at the clock. He was in the waiting room at Haddon Defoe’s private medical practice in Beverly Hills, his ample backside ensconced in an expensive Italian leather armchair. The room, in Williams’ view, was self-consciously ‘fancy’, as if the prints of silent movie stars lining the walls, or the exquisite Venetian glass vase full of peonies on the coffee table could make up for the outrageous fees Defoe charged his private patients.