Hidden Charges

by Ridley Pearson

  “Nice view,” said Shleit, looking past the rock gardens that clung to the hill.

  “Goddamned pollution is killing some of the hybrids. Not a thing a guy can do about it.”

  “You heard about our little problem out at the mall today?”

  “Word travels fast in a small town.”

  “Hillsdale’s not so small anymore.”

  “Why don’t you have a seat, Lieutenant.” The host sat up, pulling the back of the chaise lounge to accommodate him. He was a middle-aged man still trying for twenty-two. He made Shleit uncomfortable. “You look like a man too long on his feet.” He added, “Iced tea?”

  “Thanks.”

  Russo signaled with two fingers for a maid.

  “Nice place. Never been up here.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you make, does it, Lieutenant? It matters how you invest it.”

  “I wouldn’t know. Never get ahead enough to invest.”

  “The tragedy of public service.”

  “You’re a powerful man, Mr. Russo.”

  “Retired. You overestimate my situation.”

  “The bombing killed a worker. We’ve got a murder on our hands.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Of all the men in this town who might want to see Yankee Green in trouble, your name seems to head quite a few lists. It did, after all, cause your early retirement.”

  Russo’s face tightened. “An oversimplification of the situation at the time, Lieutenant.”

  “At the time you said, and I quote, ‘Some heads will roll.’ Now we have an explosive device placed inside the locker of the construction supervisor, one of the key men who broke the strength of your union.”

  “If I’d wanted DeAngelo, I’d have placed razor blades up the cunt of that whore he sees. You know me better than that.”

  “I hardly know you at all.”

  “My reputation, then.”

  “Yes. I’m not accusing you—”

  “That’s not what your tone of voice says. You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

  The drinks arrived. They came complete with frosted glasses, a slice of lemon, and a sprig of fresh mint. Shleit chugged the first half of his and placed the glass on the damp cement. He pushed the hat back on his head. “You tell me. Who would want to do a thing like this? And remember, it’s not your everyday Joe who has access to explosives.”

  “So that’s it. You think because I once ran the construction union that I might be able to snap my fingers and have someone dump some powder in someone’s locker. Come off it, Lieutenant. You’re not thinking clearly. Do I look like Marlon Brando? I have some money; I have some friends, it’s true, but my finger-snapping days are over. So maybe you people busted me once for having a couple of people persuaded to change their minds. A killer I am not.”

  “Those people ended up in the hospital. One of them nearly died.”

  “It’s over and done with. It’s behind us. This is today. I didn’t blow any locker, Lieutenant.” He sobered. “If I wanted Yankee Green, I wouldn’t go tossing bombs in the windows. If you’re familiar with my reputation, as you claim you are, then you know that much is true. I learned a long time ago that violence has its limitations. Even fear has its limitations. But pressure? Pressure just keeps building and building. I’m a man who’s come to love the complex nature of applied pressure. For instance, if you want to call on me again, you can contact my attorney. I, meanwhile, will have a short talk with Tommy Dunn and find out why one of his detectives is invading my privacy without the common courtesy of a phone call. I could have been banging some bitch out here. As I understand it, you and your captain have problems to begin with. You may be on your way out, from what I hear. Just too damn independent, isn’t that it?”

  Shleit rose from the chair.

  “You haven’t finished your iced tea. Stay. Please, be my guest.”

  “If you’re involved with this, Russo, in any way, we’ll put you behind bars for it.”

  “Now my guest threatens me. And so dramatic. Perhaps you had better leave.”

  Shleit turned and headed for the side gate, rather than walk back through the house. He picked a wilting flower and studied it closely. He said convincingly, “It’s not pollution. It’s slugs. You must know all about slugs with the company you keep. Try garlic and chalk around the base of the plants. The slugs don’t like the smell of garlic. You know something, Russo? Neither do I.”

  “Much too dramatic, Lieutenant,” Russo said as Shleit disappeared around the corner. He spit a lemon seed back into his glass and grimaced.

  20

  Julia Haverill had the long, slender figure of a fashion model, an innocent face, and the provocative eyes of an all-knowing woman. Her walk exuded the warm ripeness of her sexual awakening, enthusiasm and excitement evident in her alluring smile. At seventeen, she looked twenty-one or -two, her womanly qualities fully developed, the baby fat that often plagues teenagers long since gone, driven away by a frenetic metabolism and constant swimming, which had once been her passion but which had recently taken second place to a decidedly more indoor activity.

  Many of her outward charms had been learned from her cosmopolitan mother, absent from her everyday life for the last three years but the person, nonetheless, who had indirectly taught her how to dress like a woman, how to charm, how to flirt. The older boys had been after Julia Haverill for years; but she had not been interested in older boys. She had saved herself for a man—someone who recognized her as more than a charm on a bracelet or a night at the movies—she had saved herself for a lover. This, too, she had learned from her mother.

  She wore a khaki skirt, blue and white wide-striped blouse, and pale sandals. Her hips pumped gently side to side, bouncing the large purse that hung from her shoulder. She avoided clusters of patrons, commanding an envelope of open space around herself, assuming royal stature as she strode proudly along. Her sandy-brown hair, perfectly cut and curled under, swung across her shoulders as she moved. Rarely did a male eye miss her entrance to a room—certainly never her entrance poolside, where she wore a skin-tight Lycra suit cut high on the buttock, low in front, and even lower in the back. Like her mother, Julia believed in showing what you had while you still had it; like her mother she knew that youthful beauty, especially for women, passed much too quickly. Other women in the Green, bland and dreary by comparison, watched with envy as she drew the attention, misjudging her age by several years. She often walked with her hands in her pockets, as she did this noon, to hide her short stubby fingers and the nails she often chewed ragged. But few paid attention to her hands. Most were attracted by her more obvious attributes.

  Marv Haverill had taken custody of her after he won the divorce case by default. Despite the sordid nature of events surrounding the divorce proceedings, and despite her vulnerable adolescence at the time of her mother’s abrupt departure, she gave the impression that she had not suffered badly. She had half expected the divorce. She had always loved her mother’s keen sense of independence and had actually been consulted before the night her mother failed to show up from “shopping.” Perhaps it was this being privy to her mother’s secret that had stemmed the grief she might have otherwise felt. Perhaps it was the camaraderie of being included in the decision. Perhaps it was the crying and hugging, the tenderness, and the simple explanation, “In a few weeks, dear, when you go away to college, you’ll be free of him too, except summers. When you turn eighteen you can join me if you like—there’s nothing he can do about it except threaten to cut off your funds, and you know I can take up any slack there—and we’ll start all over, together.” She knew that such an improbable rendezvous would never take place, never work out, but accepted this truth maturely and with little regret. Her mother had never fully grown up, spoiled by a family with too much money and too many choices. A corporate wife, Kate Haverill was not. She had taken on the role like a poor understudy. The simple truth of the matter was that Julia loved her father, despite his fourteen-hou
r workdays six days a week, despite his trite patting of her head and fatherly warnings about drugs and sex.

  He was old-fashioned. Julia knew all about drugs and sex. She had an appetite for both.

  Her father had suggested Julia take a summer job, on this, her last summer before college, but Julia had convinced him—an art she had mastered—that just for this reason it was a summer to swim, play tennis, catch up on reading, and reestablish friendships. Marv Haverill had gone along with her, showing none of the argumentative skills he was famous for in business. Patting her head.

  Her real motivation had been her lover.

  She took what looked like a credit card from her purse and inserted it into the slot in the polished brass molding of one of the bank of private elevators. A light flashed and the elevator doors opened for her. She stepped inside and pushed P, for Penthouse.

  The ride was short, the elevator quiet.

  When the elevator stopped she blew into her palms, stepped into the hallway, and looked both ways. She loved the thrill of it as much as anything. The thrill of adventure was, to her, as stimulating as a line of coke, and that was something special.

  The hallway was empty. Her father’s office was just around the corner, something that added to the thrill and enhanced her excitement. She felt herself grow moist just thinking about the upcoming encounter. She moved briskly two doors down and used a key he had given her to open the door of the penthouse suite. This was one of two models still for sale.

  The air-conditioner kept the room cooler than the hallways. Her lover had explained that one of the problems inherent in the use of concrete in the construction of the Green was that the summer sun warmed the walls beyond the ability of air conditioning to cool the rooms. The air conditioners had plenty of power for this purpose, but no way to cool one side of the building more than the other. The problem only affected the upper floor. The result was that in the mornings all the suites to the west seemed overcooled, those facing east, a few degrees warmer.

  Standing before the bathroom mirror, Julia Haverill removed her jacket dramatically, impressing herself, her eyes traveling down her body slowly. She then unbuttoned her blouse’s two topmost buttons and pulled the shirt open to reveal her firm youthful cleavage. She ruffled her hair slightly, and ran her hands down along her sides to her waist as if tightening her skin. She unhooked and partially unzipped the waistband to her skirt, ready to slip easily out of it. As she stood at the mirror picturing herself naked and him behind her, grasping her gently as he rocked his loins against the back of her thighs, she located the vial in her purse and spooned a small amount of coke up toward her nose and sucked it up. She pinched her nostrils together and returned the vial to her purse. Just right.

  She visualized the entire seduction, step by step, as she had read in a book written by Dr. Seymour Klaus. She tried to feel his warmth as he pressed against her, hands searching her, ticklish breath on her neck. She bent slightly, imagining the intercourse, her small stubby hands gripping the edge of the countertop, her eyes focused on the mirror.

  They would not use the bed today; she would not have him sit in a chair while she lowered herself onto him; they would not make love in the elevator. Today it would be here, standing in front of this mirror, from behind.

  She heard the key rattle in the door. She lightly stroked her breasts in tiny, neat circles, hardening her nipples. She felt wildly in love. He was so handsome, so mature. So knowledgeable. Recently she had even fantasized about running away with him. For him she would excite her breasts as he liked, she would wiggle and squirm as he liked, she would coo and grit her teeth, inevitably out of control by the end. He had taught her much, including how to recognize her own point of no return, where his determined efforts took her beyond any ability to rationalize, to a point where her mind swam in a warm, heart-beating frenzy, and where he dictated her final moment. A point beyond which he controlled her. She loved him.

  Peter Knorpp stopped mid-stride as he caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye.

  “Darling,” she said. She lowered her eyelids over her bloodshot eyes, doing her best to appear as sexy as possible.

  He stepped closer and pulled her zipper down the last inch. Her chest heaved in long, heavy, dramatic breaths. The khaki skirt fell to her ankles. She wore a lace garter belt, matching bikini, and dark silk hose. He dropped to one knee and pulled down her panties. As he kissed her chestnut hair, he groaned.

  He fumbled with his belt and pulled his pants off.

  “I’ve missed you,” she said, watching them both in the mirror.

  ***

  Her clothes lay scattered across the countertop, his clothes dumped in a pile on the tile floor. Her upper chest was stained a fleshy pink, her breathing just now returning to normal. “Did you like it?” she asked.

  “It was good,” he said. “You?”

  “Couldn’t you tell? I loved it!”

  “You do trust me?”

  “I do. I do. Always. Always, my love.”

  His look was vague.

  “Does it remind you of anything?” She paused, waiting for a reaction. “Our first time?”

  “Of course.”

  “You took me into your office. I thought you were going to tell Daddy about me smoking that joint. I was really freaked out. You put your hands on me. God, it was a maximum high.” She turned and looked at him. “We made love standing up. Don’t you remember? We faced each other, like this.”

  He turned her body toward him, took her hand, and gently pressed it against him. She kissed down his chest, and then even lower, and aroused him.

  “You’ve never told anyone about that, I hope?”

  She hummed against him and then giggled. “You practically raped me,” she said.

  He gripped her arm strongly, hurting her. “You haven’t told anyone, have you, Julia.”

  “Hey, no,” she said, puzzled, pulling her arm free.

  He pulled her to her feet and they joined; she reached around his strong shoulders and laced her fingers together and then wrapped her legs around him so he supported her entirely. He held her tiny buttocks in his strong hands and moved her gently against him.

  Her eyes blinked shut. He studied her face as he thrust deep within her. “You feel good,” he said softly. “Does this feel good?” he asked, lifting her higher.

  “Oh, yes. Umm. Right there. Yes. Right there, my love.” She pulled him tighter and kissed him. She looked up into his eyes. He was smiling.

  21

  “Mr. Haverill, I’m Roy Walker,” said the young black man, jumping up from his seat. He wore a coat and tie and wire-rimmed glasses.

  “I told him an appointment was impossible today, sir,” Haverill’s secretary apologized.

  “I’m sorry. I’m terribly busy. Perhaps next week.” Haverill forced a smile, stuck out his hand, and when Walker didn’t offer his own he pushed past.

  “I thought you might prefer to settle out of court.”

  The comment stopped Haverill. “I beg your pardon?” he said, turning to face the handsome young man.

  “I’m an attorney, Mr. Haverill. I represent Vernon Greene.”

  Haverill’s face was blank. “I don’t know any Vernon Greene. Perhaps you want our legal department. Madge can arrange an appointment, I’m sure.”

  “As I said, if I have to go through your legal department, then we will handle this formally.”

  “Madge, call Carl up here, would you? Come in, Mr. Walker.”

  The two men entered the spacious office. Haverill pointed for Walker to take a seat, which the young man did. Only a few minutes later Haverill’s private elevator opened and Carl Brick stepped into the office. Introductions were made, and Brick, a redhead who had once played football, took a chair alongside Walker’s.

  Haverill said, “Mr. Walker represents a Vernon Greene, is that right?” Walker nodded. “And the case involves?”

  “False arrest, assault, and harassment of a minority.”


  “When did this alleged incident occur, Mr. Walker?” asked Brick.

  “This morning.”

  Haverill and Brick looked at each other.

  “Your security people arrested seven members of a teenage gang that had allegedly been shoplifting in the Safeway. I’m not here to dispute those arrests, gentlemen. However, my client, despite repeated objections and attempts to clarify the situation, was arrested right along with the others. The reason for his arrest is obvious. My client is black, gentleman. He is not a member of that gang. He was not shoplifting. He was manhandled by your security people, and charges were pressed against him.”

  Brick sighed. Haverill knew Brick well enough to know it meant they had trouble. “And what damages are you seeking, Mr. Walker?”

  “I assume Yankee Green doesn’t need negative racial publicity. You have had a campaign on for years trying to lure minorities into this mall. The reason I am here—the reason I came to Mr. Haverill instead of moving through normal channels—is because I have an unusual request.”

  “I’m listening,” said Haverill.

  “I have a rock-solid case, Mr. Haverill. It just so happens that the young man your people arrested is an honor student, had forty dollars cash in his pocket, and a shopping list half completed when your people forcefully grouped him with the others. They picked the wrong kid.”

  “What is it you want, Mr. Walker?” Haverill looked at his watch impatiently.

  “When this mall was built, this land was condemned. Over one thousand people were moved off this site by city hall, with a promise they would be relocated. That never happened. What I want from you, Mr. Haverill, is an effort to obtain the housing that was promised those people.”

  “I’m not a miracle worker, Mr. Walker. As you’ll recall, the city government made that proposal in good faith. It was only the passing of the one percent initiative that removed any funds available for a project of that size.”

  “This mall, your company, single-handedly put three people in office two years ago. You are not without influence downtown. Have you been on the other side of Washington Street lately, Mr. Haverill? Have you seen where those people are living? I grew up on the other side of Washington Street. I know first hand what it’s like. Conditions have worsened. What you have is an explosive situation. The people want action. I’ll phone you tomorrow, Mr. Haverill. I just thought you should know where I stand.” He stood. “Mr. Brick,” he said, nodding before letting himself out.