The Cheater

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  Once they were inside his Volkswagen, he just sat there, as if he were too exhausted to drive. The he turned and stared at her, a strange expression on his face. When he leaned closer, Lily was certain he was going to kiss her, but after a few moments, he pulled away.

  As they were driving back to the courthouse, he said, “I’m probably wrong to say this, but I think I subconsciously asked you to lunch today with the hope that you’d tell me you and your husband were breaking up. That isn’t true, is it?”

  “No,” Lily said, folding her hands in her lap. She started to tell him that she was attracted to him, too, but no good would come of it. Her affair with Richard Fowler had ended her marriage to Shana’s father. For all she knew, it had been a rock thrown into the wheels of the universe, setting in motion the awful events that followed. The last thing Chris Rendell needed was a woman like herself, who had done what he chastised himself for merely thinking. “I haven’t suffered the kind of loss you have, but I’ve been through some major, life-changing events.”

  “You and your daughter were raped,” he said, glancing over at her.

  All the blood drained out of Lily’s face. If she had stayed in Santa Barbara, she wouldn’t be confronting this on a daily basis.

  “Someone in the DA’s office told me,” Rendell said. “I can’t imagine going through something like that with your child.”

  “And I can’t imagine losing one.” Had he also heard about Shana walking into the DA’s office and telling them she was the one who had killed the rapist? Lily pressed her shoulders back against the seat. “That happened a long time ago, Chris. You never get over it, of course, but in time you come to accept it, understand that there was nothing you could have done to prevent it.”

  “How’s your daughter?”

  “She’s doing good,” Lily told him, reminding herself to call Shana while Bryce was away. “This is her first year at Stanford Law. She plans to become a prosecutor. Personally, I wish she would go into another field.”

  Rendell looked puzzled. “Why?”

  “I was in charge of the sex crimes division when it happened. If left up to me, I wouldn’t have reported it. Not reporting a double rape went against everything I’d worked for as a prosecutor. When push came to shove, I didn’t believe in the system.”

  Lily rolled the window down and removed her sunglasses, hoping the sun and fresh air would keep the memories from engulfing her again. As she gazed out at the passing cars, her mind propelled her back in time. She was in her Honda, a short time after she’d shot Bobby Hernandez.

  Her body was like ice, but she was dripping with sweat. The sign read ALAMEDA STREET. The sun was blazing, the streets teeming with activity. Seeing the stop sign, she braked, waiting while three schoolchildren crossed. She had been driving aimlessly for at least an hour. The shotgun, now on the floorboard, had slid to a resting place against her feet. She kicked it back and continued.

  She felt as if she could see herself from a position outside of her body. The houses were larger and the yards well tended. She was no longer in Colonia, the area in Oxnard where Hernandez resided.

  She visualized the crime scene: the police cars with their lights flashing, the ambulance and paramedics, the crowd of onlookers being held back by the police. If he had survived, he would have been transported to the nearest hospital, and the emergency room staff would be trying to stop the bleeding, assess the damage. So much time had passed, he might even be in surgery, a dedicated physician trying to save his life. What she willed herself to see was his disgusting, inhuman body beneath a coarse dark blanket, lifeless.

  Finding a major cross street, she made her way to the freeway and headed home. To Shana, she thought, she had to get to Shana. “He’ll never hurt you again, baby. He’ll never hurt anyone again.”

  She plucked the knit ski cap off her head and tossed it out the open window as she entered the on-ramp to Camarillo. She felt remarkably calm and controlled, both full and empty, horrified but at peace. The rage had been released, allowed to take its own shape and propelled toward its target. The evil had returned to the person who had unleashed it.

  Instead of turning left in the direction of her house, she turned right. Her destination was an old church whose property included a steep slope planted heavily with avocado trees. The parking lot was deserted. Mature trees blocked anyone from seeing it from nearby streets. Exiting the Honda with the shotgun, she wiped it with the tail of her shirt and held it in the fabric until she tossed it down the embankment. As her eyes tracked it, she said, “I killed a mad dog today, Dad. You would have been proud.”

  When she turned onto her street, her eyes scanned the gauges on the dash. The little needle on the gas gauge was not even a fraction above, it was locked on E. A second later she saw the patrol car parked in front of her house.

  Lily knew she had no option but to enter the house and confront the police. She hit the garage door opener and pulled the Honda alongside John’s white Jeep Cherokee. As she let her head fall against the steering wheel, the engine still running, the garage door closed, her thoughts turned to asphyxiation. Her mind struggled toward lucidity, a capsized boat trying to right itself. She reached for the strength of rage and her earlier conviction and knew it was gone. She was naked and exposed, fully aware of what she had done, face to face with the horror. Perhaps there was just enough gas left, lingering lethally in the tank, and some slim chance that whoever was inside wouldn’t hear the engine running before she turned blue and it was over.

  She quickly turned the ignition key to off. Killing herself would only inflict more agony on Shana.

  How had they found her, linked her to the crime in such a short time. There was no possibility of tracking the plate through the Department of Motor Vehicles, for she had altered it. Even if he had lived, he could have never identified her in her blue knit cap. Maybe he had seen the Honda. That’s it. He had followed her from the courthouse. He might not know her name but he knew where she lived. Here again, it didn’t play. The house where it had occurred was a rental and would take more time to track, and she truly doubted that he—in what had to be a dying statement—remembered the street and number.

  Her life was over. She would be imprisoned and disbarred. There was no defense for the crime she had committed. No matter what he had done to her and Shana, she had not shot him in self-defense; she had tracked him down and executed him. She thought of defenses: diminished capacity, temporary insanity. Did she know her actions were wrong at the time? Was she cognizant of their wrongfulness? The answer was a clear and precise yes.

  Reaching for the car door handle took all the strength and courage Lily had. She almost fell to the garage floor when the door swung open, as her fingers were locked on the handle.

  John opened the door just as she reached the first of the four steps leading to the house. “Where in God’s name have you been? I was panicked. I kept calling the house. Then I dozed off until six. You still weren’t there, so I called the police.” He paused, rubbing one hand across his brow. “I guess you saw the police car. I told them everything. They’re talking to Shana in the den.”

  Lily’s hand flew instinctively to her neck. The noose she had been hanging from had been cut, but only for the moment. “What did you tell them? You mean, about the rape? You decided we should report it?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “They said we should have reported it last night. They might have caught him in the area, somewhere near your house. With you being a DA and everything, they found it hard to understand why you didn’t call the police.”

  Lily’s mind was racing, tracking at lightning speed. They would need access to the crime scene to collect evidence and take photos. Mentally starting at the front door, she recalled the file scattered there and felt the noose tighten again around her neck. Clinton Silverstein knew she had taken the file, and whatever Oxnard detective assigned to investigate the murder might call Clinton and request the file. She had to get it back, leave it in the sam
e state as when it had left Clinton’s hands. That meant copying the torn page where his address had been and replacing it. She had to eradicate anything that could link her to the crime, for that would leave her wide open as a suspect.

  A suspect with motive and no alibi.

  “Lily,” a voice said. “Are you all right?”

  “What?” she answered, looking over and expecting to see John. But John was dead, and Chris Rendell was staring at her. The car was no longer moving, and they were in the underground parking garage at the courthouse.

  “You’re perspiring,” he said, handing her some tissues. “Are you certain you’re not ill? I didn’t realize I would upset you this much. If I had, I would have never brought up the rape.”

  “We’re both batting zero today,” Lily told him, using the tissues to blot her face. “You’re right about not telling anyone. I didn’t have that option. After Shana confessed to killing the rapist, the DA’s office filed charges against her.” Law enforcement never linked Lily to the murder of Bobby Hernandez, but Shana had put the pieces together and knew her mother had killed someone, presumably the rapist. “A homicide detective had arrested the rapist, and the charges were dropped. By then, everyone knew. You know what they say. An accusation is the same as a conviction in the court of public opinion.”

  “Why would your daughter do something like that?”

  “She was trying to protect me,” Lily explained. “The police were about to arrest me for the murders of my former husband and the rapist. Judge Hennessey told me the other morning that he didn’t approve of my appointment. He also refused to assign me any sexual offenses because he claimed I was biased.”

  Rendell’s face twisted into a grimace. “Everyone is biased when it comes to those crimes. Forget Hennessey. He’s a fucking bastard. He has no right to talk to you like that.”

  “I thought Mormons weren’t allowed to use foul language.”

  “I don’t know how it got out that I was a Mormon,” he told her, perturbed. “The church elders tried to tell me how to live my life. They wanted me to remarry right away and have more kids. I finally walked away. I’m still a Christian. I’m just not active in the Mormon church anymore.”

  “I thought you were going to convert me the other day.”

  He looked embarrassed. “I just wanted to spend time with you, Lily.”

  “Oh,” she said, wondering why, out of all the available women, he’d picked her. “I have to be on the bench by two. It’s one forty-five, so I have to run.” She reached for the door handle, then stopped. “I’m glad we talked, Chris.”

  Lily wondered if anyone had seen them. All she needed were rumors circulating that she was having an affair with Christopher Rendell. The pathos surrounding him made him even more appealing. He was like a wounded bird, and she experienced an overwhelming desire to comfort and protect him.

  Things were never as they appeared. The man she thought had all the answers was a sad and lonely person. He could lure her into something that could cause her life to spin off track again. What she felt for Bryce was enough. They didn’t have a great love, but it kept her grounded. For now, it was all she could handle.

  THIRTEEN

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 29

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  Anne disembarked from her Southwest Airlines flight and disappeared among the throngs of people as they made their way to the baggage claim. The Las Vegas airport, just like the city, was a complete abomination. The constant ringing of bells from the slot machines gave her an excruciating headache. Overall, though, it was the dull eyes and expressionless faces of the gamblers. They kept feeding money into the machines like bloodless robots. When they won, it meant nothing. They just kept inserting coins, dollar bills, anything they had, until their pockets or the machine itself told them they had no more money.

  The only game she could fathom people playing was craps. The odds were decent and it was somewhat social. That is, unless you were the only person at the table. She had money to burn, but she would rather hand it over to a reeking skid row bum than to let a croupier sweep it into the overflowing coffers of a casino.

  Darting into the women’s restroom, she entered a stall at the very back. Since she was disguised as a man, she couldn’t enter the men’s restroom and walk out as a woman. She didn’t look that masculine, anyway. She didn’t do facial hair. It took too much time and the glue broke her face out.

  She kicked off her slip-on black Vans, dropped her baggy jeans, and pulled her sweatshirt over her head. After rolling her clothing tightly to conserve space, she stuffed them into the side pockets of her pink Valentino tote. She had plopped down two grand for the tote. Both men and women noticed handbags. When you carried an expensive bag, people respected you. And it had to be a designer who was difficult to knock off. She touched the soft leather and watched how it gracefully fell into folds. The color was exquisite, a pale shimmering pink.

  Her instruments of murder had been shipped overnight via FedEx in separate parcels. She now owned three residences, all of them kill sites. They were located in remote or secluded locations such as the cabin in San Bernardino where she’d taken Stan Waverly. The Vegas property had been a steal, a nine-hundred-square-foot house in the middle of nowhere. She had made some rudimentary repairs to the interior and put in a new air conditioner. Her biggest investment had been trees and lighting. As long as it didn’t freak the guy out when she pulled up, it was fine. Unlike women, men would screw anywhere. Once their dicks started throbbing, their reason and sensibilities disappeared.

  She placed the lid down on the toilet and took out her compact, preferring to put her makeup on inside the stall because it was private. She’d had a lot of diversified jobs over the years, but none that had challenged her. Although she’d worked for numerous computer companies, once she’d tasted the thrill of killing, she needed something that didn’t restrict her to a desk or a building. Brokering insurance and acting as a real estate agent had given her more freedom. Her best job had been in a hospital pharmacy. That’s when she learned about various chemicals and how they worked inside the body. After three months, she walked away with every drug imaginable, switched to another identity, and moved to another state.

  For positions that required a degree, she had no trouble fabricating one. The same applied to certificates. Companies often checked references and verified that you were certified by Microsoft, but in the past, no one went to the effort to confirm her degree, especially if she brought a copy and transcript of her grades to the interview. All that had changed, however. Employers now outsourced background checks to India. She didn’t need a job anymore, but it made it difficult for uneducated people to get work.

  She kept one clean ID. In case that identity was also compromised, she could easily find people on the Internet who would cover for her.

  That’s how she came up with the perfect business.

  The original name was the Alibi Connection. When she’d first created the Web site and posted it, she’d been shocked at the number of responses. Her customers were primarily men, although women occasionally used her services. Several newspaper and television shows did features on alibi clubs, and dozens of copycats had popped up. At first she’d been angry that someone had stolen her idea. She finally figured out that ideas were tossed out like acorns and more than one person could catch them. The presence of the other clubs also hid her among many.

  Most of the competition disappeared due to the notoriety, but by then she had over three thousand members. After a few months, and numerous members’ concerns, she removed the site from all the search engines so a person could only reach it if he had the URL. She not only welcomed referrals, she paid the referring member a hefty fee. Two years later, she branched off into an entirely new area, even more exciting than the first.

  When things got slow or she felt like recruiting new members, she went on MySpace and sent teaser messages to men who were obviously looking for women to have sex with. Most of the servi
ces she provided were carried out over cell phones. Unlike other companies that had eventually gone out of business, there was no charge to join. The first thing she advised a new member was to purchase a pay-as-you-go cell phone. That way, he could toss it in the trash if he were in danger of being discovered, and he didn’t have to worry about the bill. If his significant other asked why he had the phone, he could explain that he’d been receiving too many telemarketing calls, and needed the phone in case an emergency came up at his work. After he purchased what she referred to as his “fun phone,” she would give him a toll-free number to call if he needed an alibi.

  Men loved it.

  Finally they could do anything they wanted and get away with it. She charged a hundred dollars for simple alibis, and up to thousands if the client wanted to be gone for longer than an afternoon. If the monster inside her got out and she killed a client, she made certain all the charges on his credit card were reversed.