Ian quickly stabbed Kestrel’s number into the phone. When she answered, he blurted, “The offer you delivered to Tosh Rollins. Who gave it you?”
“I told you, it was the DA’s office.”
“No. I mean specifically. Who in the office gave it to you and asked that you keep it confidential?”
Kestrel sighed. “It was the handsome one. Rolando Aguilar.”
28
With his foot pressed hard against the accelerator, Ian dialed Helena’s number. Her cell rang six times before it was answered by automated voicemail. His mind whirled, but he recalled that she was going to get dressed. That probably included a shower, the only place she would be without her phone.
At the beep, he said, “Helena, as soon as you get this message, leave the condo. There’s a Mean Bean coffee bar four blocks north. Go there and wait for me. I don’t think it’s safe for you to be around Rolando.”
He knew she would need more since he sounded like a jealous ex-lover doing a sloppy drink-and-dial. “He hasn’t been straight with us. He arranged for Young’s cellmate to get early release, which left Young open to be murdered by a man named Tosh. I know it sounds crazy, but Rolando also had a secret letter delivered to Tosh in prison just days before Young was murdered in his cell. He’s part of this whole fucked-up mess. I don’t know why yet, but he clearly doesn’t want us to know who hired Young to kill Emily.” Ian paused, his thoughts racing. “How long have you actually known him? And when—
He was cut off by the end-of-message beep.
Cursing, he glanced down at his speedometer and wished his crappy car had the ability to go more than 20 mph above the limit. But even at this speed, the back end was shimmying crazily enough to get its G-string stuffed with dollar bills in the darkest stripper joint on the strip.
STEAM WAS billowing from under the hood by the time Ian screeched to a halt outside the Mean Bean. When he burst through the doors of the coffee shop to scan the tables, a dozen caffeine fiends glared at him through jittery eyes before going back to their laptops, netbooks, smartphones, and a few old-school newspapers.
Helena wasn’t among them.
Ian ran back to his car, but a large puddle of bubbling green coolant had spewed onto the road, and the engine refused to turn over. When he angrily popped the hood, the fresh billow of scalding steam told him his vehicle wasn’t going anywhere for a while. Cursing his luck, Ian abandoned the steaming junk pile and took off on foot.
By running in a straight line—ignoring the carefully designed flow of meandering brick pathway and pleasant garden resting spots—Ian quickly covered the four blocks. And unlike Helena’s complex, Rolando’s building didn’t have a doorman to block his way as Ian burst through the lobby and took the stairs two at a time.
When he reached Rolando’s floor, Ian sprinted down the carpeted hall to pound on the door with a clenched fist.
“Helena! Are you OK?” He pounded again. “Helena!”
A scream from inside the apartment froze the blood in his veins. It was followed by a startled and agonized cry of pain.
“Helena!”
A second scream spurred Ian to slam his shoulder into the solid door. It barely budged. He stepped back and aimed his foot at the lock. He lashed out and heard wood crack. Another blow, another crack. After a third blow, he moved back as far as he could in the narrow hallway and ran at the door again.
The time the door splintered and crashed open. Ian tumbled through, his feet tripping over each other in surprise at the momentary loss of resistance, and he slid with ungainly grace along the polished hardwood on elbows and knees.
When he regained his footing, he saw Rolando lying at an awkward angle on the leather couch in the living room. His eyes were bulging, his mouth open in a scream so high-pitched it was barely audible to the human ear. The crotch of his pants and the surrounding seat cushion were soaked in fresh blood.
Standing over him, her white bathrobe spattered in crimson freckles, was Helena. A large kitchen knife was gripped white-knuckle tight in her right hand, and blood dripped from its pointed tip. She looked horrified by what she had done. Her feet were frozen in place, legs unable to budge. The only thing moving was her chest, but it was rising and falling at too rapid a pace.
“Helena,” Ian said gently. “It’s OK. You can put the knife down now.”
Helena turned her head, but her eyes looked completely through him as though he was nothing more than a figment of imagination.
“He told me …” Hot tears streamed down her cheeks and she began to shake, although her grip on the knife didn’t loosen. “I listened to your message. He … he tried to deny, but—” She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. “He didn’t have a choice.”
“How is he connected to all this?” Ian could feel his own breath trapped in his lungs, too thick to be absorbed. “Why did he arrange to have Young killed?”
Helena blinked and her focus shortened until Ian saw the veil lift, and she found his face.
“He says he’s a pawn.” Her voice remained distant, unattached. “Following orders and trying to get out. Young’s death was supposed to be the end of it.”
“The end of what?” Ian asked.
“His involvement.” The tears stopped flowing and an angry spark began to burn within wet ash. “He said he loved me.” She suddenly snarled and spun to face Rolando again. The knife flicked in her hand, spraying more droplets of blood onto the walls and couch. “Fucking lying bastard.”
Ian rushed forward and wrapped one arm around Helena’s waist as he grabbed her right wrist in his free hand. She screamed like a banshee and landed a sharp blow to Rolando’s knee with her bare heel, while Ian whispered in her ear and pulled her away.
“Drop the knife,” he cooed. “You don’t need it. I’m here now. Come on, Scrunch. For me.”
A flicker played on her lips, a remembrance of happier times, a tiny spark of reality amidst the madness. “Don’t call me that.”
“Drop the knife and it’s a deal.”
Helena’s hand went slack and the knife tumbled from her grasp. The large blade spun until its tip embedded itself in the hardwood floor, while Helena turned and buried her face in Ian’s shoulder.
Enveloped unconditionally, Ian held her tight until he felt the rigor mortis of her body begin to wane.
“Are you injured?” he asked.
Against his shoulder, a large wet patch forming on his shirt from dripping eyes, mouth, and nose, she shook her head.
“OK, I need to put you down and see to Rolando.”
Helena squeezed him tighter, practically choking off his air supply, refusing to let go.
“It’s important.” He glanced over at Rolando, who hadn’t moved an inch from his spot on the couch. The blood, however, had continued to flow, and his skin was draining of all color. He was dying. Rapidly.
Ian changed tactics. “In court, you always make sure the jury knows that in cases of self-defense, your clients tried to do everything they could to help the injured victim, right?”
Helena moved her shoulders in the barest of shrugs. The shock and painful betrayal of her lover had reduced her from a formidable lawyer to a petulant child.
“I need to help Rolando. We both do.”
Reluctantly, Helena allowed herself to be guided into a leather armchair. Immediately, she curled her legs underneath her, crushed an overstuffed pillow against her chest and rested a cheek along its bulging seam. In that frozen moment, she looked so much like Emily, struggling to stay awake to watch the end of a good movie that had run past her bedtime, that it nearly broke Ian’s heart.
Moving to Rolando’s side, Ian placed two fingers on the side of the lawyer’s neck. His skin was clammy, but a pulse still beat a thready rhythm within his carotid artery. Despite the shock that glued him to the spot and made his pupils the size of marbles, Rolando still whimpered when Ian pulled the kitchen knife from the floor.
Without bothering to calm him with words of assurance,
Ian swept away the hands weakly cradling his injured groin and used the large knife to cut away Rolando’s trousers. When he tossed the flayed fabric aside, coins and a few other metallic objects tumbled out of the pockets and skittered away on the floor.
With the flesh exposed, Ian snatched up a nearby fleece blanket and mopped away as much of the blood as he could to get to the source. Although his torn and bloody underwear suggested damage to the genitals, the more serious wound was high in the thigh and without treatment was easily fatal. The only thing delaying his death was that the femoral artery appeared to have been nicked rather than severed.
Ian rushed to the kitchen where he snatched up a pair of clean dishcloths and a silver butter knife before dashing back. He folded the first cloth into a thick square and laid it over the leaking wound. The second dishcloth was folded lengthwise and wrapped around Rolando’s thigh. After tying off the makeshift bandage, he slid the butter knife beneath the knot. As Rolando groaned in pain, Ian turned the knife to tighten the wrapping into a blood-slowing tourniquet.
With the wound in stasis, Ian held the knot tight with one hand while he leaned in close until his lips almost brushed Rolando’s ear.
“If I let go of the tourniquet, you die,” he said. “Won’t take long and nobody will shed a tear. But give me a name and I’ll call an ambulance.”
Rolando’s eyes flickered and a pink tongue dragged itself across his lips.
“I don’t believe you killed my daughter,” Ian continued, “but you’re involved. You arranged for Lee Hogg to be released so that Young could be silenced. Tell me who you’re working for.”
Rolando groaned, “Water.”
Ian twisted the tourniquet tighter, eliciting another high-pitched squeal. “You don’t have time to fuck around. Give me a name.”
Rolando coughed and licked his lips again. “You don’t want me dead. Bad for Helena.”
“Self-defense,” hissed Ian. “She already confided in me how she was becoming scared of your temper. I had to break in because I was afraid for her life. I saw you attacking her, and she had no choice but to strike back. You won’t be around to say anything different.”
Rolando had trouble moving his lips now. “You’re not a killer.”
Ian grabbed the lawyer’s face and twisted his head so that his eyes had nowhere else to look . Ian’s own eyes were hard and dark as whetstone. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
Releasing his grip on the tourniquet, Ian could see the immediate results cross Rolando’s pale face. Death was crouched on his chest, wearing spurs and spitting coffin nails. Ian twisted the tourniquet tight again.
“A name,” he demanded.
And Rolando gave him one.
29
Ian called for an ambulance before dialing the Justice Center and asking to be put through to homicide.
“Detective Castle.”
“I need a favor,” said Ian.
“You’re becoming like a broken CD. The kind that’s just too scratched to play and makes you wonder why you keep it around. The album cover ain’t that pretty either.”
“Deputy DA Aguilar is bleeding to death on his couch.”
“What? What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s complicated.”
“No shit. Did you stab him?”
“No. Helena did.” He added the lie that would be necessary if Jersey was recording the call. “It was self-defense.”
“Jesus H!”
“Can you come over? I don’t want her to be on her own with strangers.”
“Have you called an ambulance?”
“On its way.”
“Is Aguilar going to make it?”
“Tough to say.”
“Shit! OK, I’m coming. Wait there. Don’t fucking move. I mean it.”
Ian hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He turned to his wife. Her eyelids were open but her eyes were vacant beads of frosted glass.
“Helena. I need you to come here and take over with the tourniquet.”
She looked at him as though he was sitting on a rock a thousand miles away.
“Come on,” he encouraged, “just move to the couch. The paramedics will be here soon. Jersey is coming, too.” When she didn’t move, he raised his voice. “Helena! It’s important that you do this. Please! We’re running out of time.”
She glared at him, but gingerly lowered her feet to the floor as though testing to see if it would burn the soles or crack like ice and swallow her whole.
“That’s it,” he said. “Just come over to the couch.”
With a lurch, Helena shoved herself upright, swaying like a drunk who suddenly understands what Newton was talking about, took three steps, and tumbled toward the couch. Ian moved instantly to grab her arms and lower her beside Rolando. She bristled at the closeness, but was too weak to resist. After making the tourniquet tight again, Ian wrapped Helena’s hand around the butter knife to secure the knot.
“Just hold it there. Don’t let go until the paramedics tell you, OK?”
She curled her lip in disgust and a shiver ran down her body. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t care about him,” Ian said. “You are all that matters. We keep him alive, we might keep you out of jail. You don’t belong there.” He didn’t add the unspoken fear that rang circles in his mind: You wouldn’t survive. Eighteen months earlier, he would have said she was one of the strongest people he knew, but once that foundation of love and trust cracked, there wasn’t a bond invented that could ever be strong enough to make it whole again.
Helena’s shivering grew worse, and her teeth began to chatter. She looked down at her hand holding the knot of the blood-soaked towel, a man’s life hanging by her fingertips. “I’ll need a g-g-good lawyer.”
“They’ll be lining up to represent you. Meantime, I need to borrow your car.”
She blinked in alarm. “You’re leaving?”
“I have to.”
“Why?”
Ian heard the wail of an approaching siren. “You’ll be OK. Go to the hospital with the paramedics. Don’t say a word to the police. There’s no need to talk. You’ll be treated for shock. Just rest and listen to the docs.”
Helena offered a faint smile. “You s-s-sound like a lawyer.”
“Don’t hold it against me.”
Her smile widened, and then he was gone.
TAPPING THE unlock button on the electronic key fob he had liberated from Helena’s purse, Ian was rewarded by a flashing of headlights from the parked Jaguar. He rushed to the two-seater and slid inside, suddenly aware of how grimy he looked against the expensive car’s luxury interior. It was all scented wood oil and butter-soft leather, while he was blood, sweat, and hate.
Pulling out of the underground lot, he drove the sleek sports car slowly by the idling ambulance as two paramedics hurried toward the condo development. Even with trauma expertise, Ian knew the pair faced an uphill battle to save Rolando’s life. Stopping the loss of blood was one thing, but getting a transfusion in time to prevent massive organ failure was quite another. Whether by accident or on purpose, Helena had known exactly how to hurt a man.
A police cruiser, all bluster and flash, tore past as Ian exited the development and merged into downtown traffic. Jersey wouldn’t be far behind and he certainly wouldn’t be pleased to find that once again all Ian had left to greet him with were bloody fingerprints.
Leaving the downtown core, Ian headed up the winding roads of West Hills. The Jaguar took to the curves like a kitten licking cream. Someone once said that Portland’s West Hills was akin to Boston’s Beacon Hill, but without the dress code. To a certain degree that was correct, but Ian knew the address that he was driving to would still frown upon his day-old, borrowed attire—especially since he had managed to splatter the shirt and pants in prosecutorial gore.
Arriving at the electronic gate to the two-acre, parklike property, Ian kept his face in shadow, hoping the car alone would act as proper ide
ntification. He was rewarded by a faint buzz and the slow rumble of the gate swinging open on a well-oiled chain.
The paved driveway circled a manicured island of still-blossoming flowers and lush greenery in the shape of a flattened rice grain: wide in the middle, but tapering to a rounded point at each end. A tanned Hispanic gardener looked up from a plastic bucket of pulled weeds and tipped a Beavers ball cap in greeting before returning to his duties.
The house was eight thousand square feet of old-world English charm and refined 1930s elegance with four garages, an outdoor pool, and a cabana, plus a panoramic view of the poor working stiffs in the valley below.
Ignoring the small sign on the lawn instructing all visitors to park in the designated stalls beside the garages, Ian stopped directly in front of the main doors with the car blocking the driveway. He took several deep, cleansing breaths before sliding out of the form-fitting bucket seat and walking up flat stone steps to the cool embrace of a curved portico.
The breathing exercise had failed to stop his teeth from grinding and his chewed fingernails from digging into the soft meat of sweaty palms. Nervous energy coursed through his body as he rang the doorbell and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
The gentleman who answered the door was edging past seventy, but looked closer to sixty. His hair was platinum and he kept his physique trim and fit with regular laps in the pool, rounds on the golf course, and weekends playing tennis at a country club so exclusive its airspace was classified as a no-fly zone. He had the face of a kindly but strict grandfather with just enough wrinkles in the right places to let you know he had found time in life to laugh and soak up the sun with yearly winter vacations.
The Fear in Her Eyes Page 17
