by Lia Matera
Knowing what I risked—either way—I crossed the last few meters of lobby to the double glass doors.
There were no cops out front. I took that as a bad sign.
I pushed on the lock bar. The door didn’t give.
I denied myself the luxury of panic. I scrutinized the door and saw a key in the lock.
I wiped the bar with my sleeve, pulled part of my sweater over my fingers, and turned the key. If it was the police who’d entered, it would mislead them, finding the door unlocked.
I didn’t want to mislead the police. And I wanted to believe they were in the Main Room, that I was in no danger. I almost wavered.
But I could imagine the ripping pinch of tape on my skin. And I knew from recent scuba lessons how it felt to struggle for air.
I pushed the door open. I slid out the narrowest possible aperture, and I bolted around the corner.
My car waited in a pocket of shadow. I pulled my keys from my handbag and got myself inside. I tried not to rush; rushing might make me fumble.
I backed out of the side street with my lights off, backed out quickly. Vaguely, in the periphery of my vision, I logged night people, possibly the ones who’d lingered here earlier.
Wouldn’t they have scattered if they’d seen the police arrive? They were likely selling sex or buying drugs, or they were a little crazy to be on the street so late. Wouldn’t they have dispersed?
I put the car into drive, certain now that I was running from killers. I clicked on the lights and fled. I jerked a fast half block, then forced myself to slow down, to observe the speed limit and not call attention to myself. Not until I was sure I hadn’t run from the police. Because if I had, reinforcements would arrive soon. And I didn’t want to be stopped for reckless driving. I was too rattled to explain. All I wanted was to be away, far away from here.
I drove slowly for an interminable block before I finally heard sirens, lots of them.
My rearview mirror caught distant flashes of red and blue lights.
The police.
My god, I’d fled a crime scene. How would I explain that?
I hit the accelerator, my stomach cramping. It was probably the police inside, then. They wouldn’t have answered an initial 911 call in such force. These were backups responding to a call for officer assistance.
I should stop now. Go back. Tell them what I knew.
But Jesus, they’d make life hard for me. I’d run away; how would they interpret that?
They’d detain me all night, probably most of tomorrow. I’d be explaining this for days, begging them to believe I knew nothing, that I’d gotten a phone call and come to help an acquaintance.
I doubted I’d be arrested. They would find nothing linking me to these murders: no blown-back tissue or splotches of blood or old feuds. But they would make my life hell because that was how they did their jobs.
And it wouldn’t be just the police. When Wallace Bean and Dan Crosetti died, I’d been trapped by reporters, mobbed every time I stepped out, everywhere I went.
I couldn’t bear the thought. I’d grown used to my privacy; it was all I had left.
And the publicity would taint my new practice. It might sink under the weight of doubt and innuendo. Wouldn’t Steve Sayres love that?
I pressed my foot to the gas pedal. The car shot forward. Reporters around me night and day, the burned coffee and sour sweat of police interrogation rooms.
I couldn’t put myself through it. I’d rather run.
But oh my god. How would I ever explain this if I got caught?
14
The plane flew low over vast mirrors of water and snow-capped volcanoes. I burrowed into my seat. I closed my eyes, hoping to achieve the sleep that had eluded me last night. But that meant dealing with my conscience and my fears, and that was the same old torment.
Where was Margaret? I’d driven to her house this morning and pounded on her door, hoping to narrow the scope of the tragedy, to console myself with proof that only strangers had died. But either Margaret hadn’t been home or she hadn’t been willing to acknowledge my shrill petitions for entry.
Had she gone to The Back Door? Had she changed into sexy lingerie and ended up taped to a seat? Had she seen the murders? Had she—for reasons I couldn’t grasp or for no reason but sudden madness—killed those women?
Or had she wandered the night away and then retreated to a deep but innocent sleep?
Maybe she’d never even been to The Back Door parking lot. Maybe she’d sent me there for reasons of her own.
Had she sent me there to find six dead women taped to chairs? Or six live women I could rescue?
I opened my eyes. Why pretend sleep was imminent?
I’d spent most of the night cataloging things that could go wrong: The police could find my fingerprints somewhere my earlier visit wouldn’t explain. Someone in the neighborhood had noticed my car and remembered the plates. Margaret might come forward to tell the police she’d phoned me (before leaving the vicinity?); she might tell the police I’d planned to go there.
I tugged at my seat belt. Even one band of restraint seemed insupportable after last night’s display.
If the police learned I’d fled, the State Bar would discipline me. Steve Sayres had friends on the Board of Governors; it was a sure thing. I’d spent ten months learning how much I needed my career. I didn’t want it pulled out from under me now. Especially not by Sayres.
My practice, so frail and new, would certainly collapse under the weight of the negative publicity. There were plenty of untarnished lawyers in San Francisco. I’d be frozen out.
I stared out the window. Washington was so green and vast, so unspoiled. Maybe I should have stayed up north, where people valued simplicity and natural majesty, where things didn’t come down to who you knew and how you played the game. If only Hal hadn’t grown so quiet, so disturbed. I could have loved the underpopulated woods. Maybe I could have made something of a country practice.
I indulged a brief fantasy of closing down my new office and moving back.
This morning, with seven bodies on my mind and my conscience, I’d have been happy to walk away from the big city. But I was determined not to be forced out.
I had a day to think things over and chart my course. I’d been grateful for the plane ticket taking me to Brother Mike’s island. A nice, early flight so I didn’t have to cope with morning news reports and the inevitable call from Sandy.
Sandy. It wouldn’t be easy, keeping this from him. But my alternative was to make him an accessory after the fact to my flight from a crime scene. I was a better friend than that.
Beside me, Mount Saint Helens rose and then stopped, its top a ragged spill of gray ash.
Once I arrived in Seattle, it would take another hour and a half to reach the ferry to San Juan Island. It would take an hour to reach that island, and a half-hour motorboat ride to Brother Mike’s island. I could count on another four hours of solitude on planes and buses and boats. I wished I had twice as long.
I stared out the window at the flat volcanic lakes and saw silver tape masks. I saw myself being met at the airport by policemen, being booked and jailed. I practiced learning that Margaret was dead.
I curled up in my seat, again hoping to retreat into sleep.
Again, it was no use. I pulled the credit-card phone out of the seat back in front of me. I called Sandy.
“Where are you?” he demanded. “Have you heard?”
“I’m on a plane to Seattle. I’m going up to Michael Hover’s place. I told you that yesterday.” I tried to keep my tone normal, but I could hardly remember feeling normal. “Have I heard what?”
“I’ve got some very weird news for you, I’m afraid.”
I’d wanted to go to him last night. I’d wanted to take a hot cup of tea from his hands and tell him what I’d seen. I’d wante
d to lie in his arms and feel protected. I’d wanted him to say he understood why I’d fled.
I shrugged tension out of my shoulders. The plane was small, but still, there was no one within two rows of me. I had no excuse not to ask. “What’s the news?”
“Six women who work at The Back Door got killed there last night.”
“Killed as in ‘murdered’?” I didn’t want to feign shock. I might have to confess later—to him, maybe even to the police. There was a limit to how duplicitous I could be without burning my bridges.
“Yuh. Cops are keeping it quiet exactly how they died—won’t release the names till later, till they’ve contacted all the next of kin.”
“Was de Janeiro one of them?” I recalled the line of silver masks. Thought about the women I’d seen dancing. I’d spent most of the night trying not to connect certain faces with certain teddies.
“That much I know. De Janeiro’s in the hospital. She got jumped earlier that night.”
“What do you mean, ‘jumped’?” This question, at least, was sincere. Margaret had offered very little information.
“It looks like someone held her while someone else hit her—she got banged up, bruised. But no scrapes or dirt on her clothes, so it doesn’t seem like she fell down or fought back or anything like that. Like I said, probably someone held her arms while someone else slugged her.”
“Is she all right?”
“They’re not saying much, but I gather they don’t check in people who’ve been beaten unless they’re watching for internal damage. She’s not in Intensive Care, so they haven’t found any yet, apparently.”
“Did she ID anyone?”
“What I heard is, she won’t say anything except that it was dark, and it was over fast. But she could be lying—someone hits you more than once, they’re probably in your face long enough for you to see them.”
The plane was beginning its descent. I could feel it in my ears.
“Laura? You still there?”
“What time did this happen? What time did she go to the hospital?”
“Happened around eight o’clock, apparently. Which is probably why the women we asked about her acted so strange: She was supposed to be there, but she wasn’t.”
“Did she go to the hospital right away?”
“Nope. Your used-to-be client, Margaret Lenin, took her to the Emergency Room around eleven. They cleaned her up and x-rayed her and let her go around midnight. They told her to come back if she spit up blood or passed out. Which she did—come back, I mean. They checked her into the hospital around a quarter to two.”
“Where was she the time in between?”
“Hell if I know.”
“Was she well enough to t—” I caught myself before I said, tape up her coworkers. The police hadn’t released that information.
I took a deep breath.
“Well enough to what?” Sandy’s tone was reserved, almost suspicious.
“Well enough to go kill her coworkers?”
“Assuming she had a reason to do that. More likely whoever beat her up went to the theater later and killed the women. But to answer your question, I don’t know. She’s got to be hurting if they admitted her to the hospital.”
“Was Margaret with her when she went back?”
“I don’t know. I talked to someone in Emergency. All I know about her being admitted is what’s on her chart.”
I knew the charts weren’t available for casual perusal. I was impressed he’d managed to sneak a look.
“Find Margaret for me, Sandy.” I didn’t want to tell him about her two a.m. phone call. He’d know I’d followed up on it. He’d know I’d gone to fetch her.
“All right.” His tone was aloof. “Any particular reason?”
“She might know how badly Arabella was hurt. The possibility of her being involved with the murders aside, it might affect what Arabella decides to do about her lawsuit.”
“All right.” His voice said, If that’s all you want to tell me. “You got the guru’s number for me? I’ll phone you there.”
I fished Brother Mike’s phone number from my briefcase and read it to him.
I stared out the window, knowing there was more I should ask. Trying to think how I’d discuss this if I had no more information than I should have.
Finally, Sandy helped me out. “De Janeiro getting beaten, it might have been a hired job. Might have been a mugging. It’s not high priority with the police—her kind of work, that kind of neighborhood. Or it wasn’t till this other thing happened.”
“They think the two are related?”
“I’d say the operating assumption downtown is someone had it in for the women, all of them. They got de Janeiro on her way in to work—maybe got scared off by the crowd leaving the benefit. Then they went back and got even more violent.” A slight pause. “Don’t you want to know how they died?”
“You said the police weren’t releasing the information.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t know. I’ve seen the coroner’s pictures. It helps to have friends.”
I sat in rigid endurance while he described the scene to me. I didn’t comment.
“You okay?” he asked finally.
“Yes.”
A sigh. “I talked to a couple of people work at the theater.”
I had to give him credit: the police usually wrapped their witnesses up tight. “What did they say?”
“The guy who was selling tickets left around one—got a call his wife and kid were in an accident. Turned out they were fine, so obviously someone just wanted him out of there—guy doubles as a bouncer. The dancers told him to go ahead and leave. They didn’t have any customers; I guess weeknight business can be pretty negligible. So he went tearing off. The women were going to lock up after him. One of them was going to wait around for the clean-up people.”
“Were the women wearing street clothes when they found them?”
“No. Could be some customers came along who looked like real good tippers, and the ladies decided to let them in and do some more dancing. But I kinda doubt it. Could be one of the dancers made the call—that the women wanted him gone, but whatever they’d planned didn’t work out right.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Probably whoever phoned the ticket guy was outside watching for him to leave. They probably went right in there with the duct tape. Didn’t give the women a chance to lock up. Cops found the front door unlocked.”
If I’d gone inside sooner, would it have made a difference? If I’d gone straight in to them and pulled the tape off their faces … “How long had they been dead when the police found them?”
“Not long.” He stopped, seemed to listen hard to what I wasn’t saying.
When had the last of them died, I wondered. Before I arrived at the theater? While I was at a phone booth calling for help? While I was edging along the corridor? When I decided to walk right by them and save myself?
“Laura?”
“You said something about a man, a dead man?”
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“Could be he kicked the back door in, and someone greeted him in the hall with a gun. Or he might have been involved in killing the women. Cops don’t know. They figure he died right away when the bullet hit him. Thirty-eight caliber. They haven’t found the gun.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “I mentioned the women were taped facing the stage? I was thinking maybe someone wanted their attention.”
I’d been so traumatized by being on the stage looking down at them that I hadn’t considered what they’d been taped there to look up at.
“Who?”
“All I can offer is an uninformed guess. But they had a group of women there earlier in the day protesting. I heard your lawyer friend telling you about them. They might have gone there lat
er to do a little coerced education. I tipped my cop buddy to find out who they were.”
“They wouldn’t kill seven people, Sandy.” Would they? Or was I making assumptions based on feminists I’d known? Was I refusing to believe that a philosophy to which I subscribed could be perverted to include violence?
“Who knows. Tell me more about Margaret Lenin.”
The question chilled me. It was going to be difficult, keeping secrets from Sandy.
He continued, “She’s the client dudded out on you, right? From the infamous videos?”
“Yes.”
“But she’s not your client anymore?”
“No.”
“And you’re not friends?”
“Acquaintances. She co-counseled me in on some of her cases when I worked for Doron. She’s in-house for Graystone.” Maybe I’d told him that at lunch yesterday. I couldn’t remember.
“You’ll be available later?” I could tell from his tone he knew something was up. “Laura? You’ll be there when I call you?”
“We’re about to land.” I could see the Seattle-Tacoma airport now, a field of light-studded asphalt against a gray sky. “Bye, Sandy.”
As soon as I hung up, I missed the comfort of his voice.
15
The first thing I said to Michael Hover was, “Before we get to the nitty-gritty, I’ll need to have you review the retainer agreement. Please sign it if it’s to your satisfaction.”
He was not what I’d expected. I’d expected a smugly beatific man with a gift for glib aphorisms. Or an emaciated ascetic with a mad, brooding air. Or perhaps a spoiled man-boy surrounded by gadgets and fast cars.
The man sitting a few feet from me in an Adirondack chair wore dark slacks and a pin-striped short-sleeved shirt with a row of pens in one pocket. His hair was a thick, graying brown, and his face was surprisingly ordinary; someone’s engineer uncle, that’s what he looked like. He maintained almost constant eye contact and had one of the most soothing voices I’d ever heard, but otherwise there was nothing overtly guru-like about him.
