A Picture of Guilt
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Authors: Libby Fischer Hellmann
Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #Women Sleuths, #Historical, #General, #Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths
A Picture of Guilt
A Picture of Guilt
Libby Fischer Hellmann
P
OISONED
P
EN
P
RESS
Copyright © 2003 by Libby Fischer Hellmann
First Edition 2003
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2003104004
ISBN: 1-59058-073-7 Hardcover
ISBN: 9781615950942 ePub
A Picture of Guilt
is a Berkeley original paperback publication and this hardcover edition has been published with the kind permission and cooperation, and is reprinted by arrangement with The Berkeley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Poisoned Pen Press
6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103
Scottsdale, AZ 85251
For Michael and Robin
This book would not exist without the input of many people, all of whom I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude. Especially Don Whiteman, whose knowledge, patience, and careful reading of the manuscript were a godsend. Also FBI Special Agent James Whitmer, Bob Egan, David Wechsler, Gerry Kessler, Leon Guaquil, Northbrook Deputy Commander Mike Green, Northfield Chief of Police Bill Lustig, Dave and Jean-Marie Case, and the Red Herrings.
To Jacky Sach and Samantha Mandor: your insights and support are unparalleled—thanks for believing in Ellie. To Nora Cavin, I will always depend on your ear. And special thanks to Barbara Peters, TEE, who is really an angel in disguise.
Whoever destroys a single life is as guilty as though he had destroyed the entire world; and whoever rescues a single life earns as much merit as though he had rescued the entire world.
—
The Talmud
, Mishna. Sanhedrin
C
ONTENTS
The raft plunged straight down and slammed into a wall of water. It flew up at a ninety-degree angle, propelling me up and out into the river. The rapids spun me around and threw me from side to side, burying me under a blanket of waves. I tried to right myself so I could rise to the surface, but I couldn’t tell which way was up. My lungs were on fire; my eyesight grew dim. Then a powerful force shoved me up, and I broke the surface, gasping for air.
Feet up, legs straight. That’s what the guide said. I tried to stretch my legs out, but a fresh torrent wrenched me under. I tumbled over like a flimsy rag doll. Then, as if taunting me with the promise of release, the river raised me up again. Two giant boulders loomed ahead. I gulped down air and squeezed my eyes shut, certain my last sensation on earth would be the excruciating pain of bone splintering against rock.
When I opened my eyes, the boulders were behind me. A surge of foam and spray had pushed me through a narrow channel between them. Above the roar of the rapids, I heard screams. I twisted around. Rachel! Twenty yards away, my thirteen-year-old’s yellow helmet bobbed in the churning waves.
My stomach clenched. I lunged and thrashed my arms, trying to swim to her, but the rapids carried me in the opposite direction. Just before I went under, I saw the guide throw her a lifeline. It landed short. When I came up, she was gone.
The river carried me another quarter mile. Then, as if underscoring its absolute control, it quieted. A hush descended. Tiny bubbles eddied across the surface. Gentle waves rippled peacefully. Hot sun struck my face.
I didn’t care. Rachel was gone. I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. I wanted to scream, but the sound died in my throat. I stopped struggling. The water had won.
***
“I should have known, when they said the river was kicking butt.” I drained my third glass of wine.
“It was up two feet from the big storm the other day,” Rachel added. She stirred her Coke with her swizzle stick.
“But you survived,” Abdul, our dinner companion, said to Rachel.
Her blond curls framed her face like a soft, golden cloud. They bounced as she nodded. “Another raft picked me up.”
Rachel inherited her coloring from her father, but we share the same gray eyes and feisty ways. I pushed a strand of thick, black hair behind my ears, thinking how close I’d come to never seeing those curls again.
“The guide said you weren’t in any real danger, with the life preservers and helmets,” David said.
I glared. “What did you expect him to say?”
We were finishing cocktails in the main dining room at the Greenbrier. Nestled in the backwoods of West Virginia, the resort is one of the plushest in the world. With its graceful columns, sculpted gardens, and antebellum buildings, it fairly drips Southern gentility.
Which is why it sounded like a perfect idea when David asked us to meet him there for the Labor Day weekend. It would be a grand finale to summer, an elegant start to fall. It was also a chance for the three of us to spend time together, since Rachel and I live in Chicago. To bond, in that trying-each-other-out-as-family kind of way. I’d even started to look forward to the trip, imagining myself sipping mint juleps on the veranda in a frothy summer frock. Of course, I don’t have a frothy, mint-julep-sipping frock, but my friend Susan let me borrow hers. Susan has a dress for everything.
“Another glass of wine?” Abdul asked.
“I believe I will.”
“Ellie,” David cut in. “Haven’t you had enough?”
“Not yet.”
Abdul Al Hamarani had appeared at exactly the right time, like a fairy-tale genie magically released from his bottle. He was buying film inside the rafting company’s small office as Rachel and I stumbled inside after our ordeal.
“We should never have left the Greenbrier,” I’d muttered, collapsing on a chair.
He turned around. Wearing khakis with sharp creases, a pressed shirt, and a safari vest, he looked like he’d stepped out of a J. Peterman catalog. “You are staying at the Greenbrier?”
I nodded.
“I am staying there as well.” He was round-faced, with dark hair slicked back from a widow’s peak and had he had wide, lively eyes. Pocketing his roll of film, he introduced himself and, after David joined us and settled up with the guide, insisted we drive back together in his rented Mercedes. David started to decline, but after our experience, I wasn’t eager for the bumpy ride in the van we’d come in. We accepted Abdul’s offer.
During the trip we learned he was a Saudi petrochemical sheik and distant relative of the royal family. He’d come in a few days in advance of an annual energy conference, one of those international global-policy making forums the Greenbrier is famous for hosting.
“I like to take pictures.” He pointed to a canvas bag that had been slung on his shoulder. “Even your harshest summer is a relief from what I’m used to.”
