Death Row (26 page)

Mike felt his face reddening. "Yes, I have a type."

"Does it involve women?"

"Yes, but it doesn't involve Dr. Hayley Bennett."

Baxter held up her hands. "All right. All right already."

They drove in silence. Baxter didn't think she should say anything more, and Mike was almost afraid to. Until he couldn't stand it anymore.

"Look, are you just giving me more grief here? Or do you really-"

"She was on fire, Morelli. Liquid flame. Undressing you with her eyes."

"Wow." He continued driving, eyes straight ahead. "Guess I missed that. Thanks for letting me know."

"My pleasure." After a moment, she turned herself around in the bucket seat, just enough to face him. "So, does this mean I can drive the Trans Am?"

"Not a chance." He paused. "But if you keep it up, I might let you touch one of the mag wheels."

"What, you're going to fire me after seven years because I want to talk to your old girlfriend?"

"You got it, Ben."

"Christina would say that's a good reason to do it."

"Look-just humor me on this. She couldn't possibly tell you anything of interest. Why do you think she would?"

"Well, to tell you the truth-your old lab pal Hubbard put the idea in my head."

"Hubbard? Why?"

"He told me about your social life together. When you weren't huddled over the Scrabble board, that is."

"Hubbard's full of it."

"He painted a fairly vivid portrait. Cruising the singles bars and whatnot. I know that was before Carrie, but still-"

"Did you have Christina with you? He was probably trying to impress her with his tales of macho studdom."

"Still, if there's any chance-"

"Ben-I'm begging you. I know I can't fire you. No one's going to take my case on the eve of execution. But I've caused that poor woman enough torment. Don't bother her, okay?"

Ben looked at him long and hard. "I'll have to think about it some more," he said finally.

Ray stared at him, stony-eyed. "You're going to see her, aren't you?"

"I'll let you know."

Ray grunted. He was obviously unhappy, but no doubt realized there was nothing more he could do.

"Anything I can get you?" Ben asked.

"How about a cab ride to the nearest synagogue?"

"Are you doing all right? You look tired."

"I haven't been sleeping well. I still get the nightmares."

Ben remained silent. He didn't have to ask what they were about.

"You don't know how close I came. They actually had me strapped down on that table, before the call came in from the courthouse. They had started filling the needles. I thought it was... was over."

Ben wished he could reach out, could touch, could offer some measure of comfort in some way. But of course, he couldn't. Ben'd had a few brushes with mortality himself, but nothing that could even come close to what Ray must be experiencing-the slow, inexorable, measured approach of an all-but-certain death.

"Now every time I close my eyes, I see that table. Right before me. The straps. The needles. The warden with his finger on the button. All of it taunting me, saying, 'We let you go once. But we're still here. And we'll get you.' "

"That must be..." Ben couldn't think of a word that began to describe it. "Almost unbearable."

Ray did not disagree. "I see the rabbi every day now. We get down on our knees and we say the prayers. But none of it helps. None of it makes me... forget. Where I'm headed. What they want to do to me. I have a burning sensation in my stomach and every day it gets worse."

"We're doing everything we can," Ben said, realizing as he said it what little help it must be. "If there's any way to stop this, we will."

Ray's dark and hooded eyes peered out from behind his fingers. "As a Jew, I should believe in miracles. But I don't. Never have. Much as I might like to delude myself with hope-I can't. Much as I might like to believe there's someone up there looking after me-I know better. When the guard closes the door at night-I'm alone in the cell. And when they strap me down to that table-I'll be alone. No more last-minute reprieves. No miracles. No eleventh-hour redemption." He shook his head with despair. "I don't think I believe in anything anymore."

Ben pressed his hand against the glass. "Believe in this, Ray. I'm not going to let those nightmares come true. Not without a fight."

Ray pressed his own hand against the other side of the glass. But he did not say anything. And the hollow, lost look in his eyes did not fade.

"You don't know what you're talking about!"

"Ms. Knight, we have legitimate information-"

"From a shrink? Someone who was paid to talk to Erin?"

"Dr. Bennett seemed very certain-"

"Well, she got it wrong." Sheila Knight was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of jeans with a rip in the right knee. She was wearing no makeup and her hair was in need of a wash. Just the same, she was gorgeous.

"Apparently Erin first revealed under hypnosis-"

"That's a crock."

Mike inhaled deeply. He was tired of being interrupted. Maybe it was just him, but Sheila's protestations seemed almost too vehement. "Is it possible Erin told her psychiatrist something she would never tell anyone else?"

"It is not possible," Sheila said firmly. "Erin told me everything. If I didn't know about it, it didn't happen. So I can state absolutely and positively-this did not happen!"

Mike decided to change the subject. "What kind of work do you do?"

"I'm a tech writer. Freelance. I write all those boring little manuals you don't read whenever you buy something."

"Like what?"

"Oh, I've done almost everything. Instruction manuals for kitchen appliances. Construction manuals for children's toys. Did an employee training book for a fast-food chain. That sort of thing."

"Stay busy?"

"More than I want, actually. The first few years were slow, but once I got my name out there-wow. I have all the work I want now. I even farm some out to friends, subcontracts."

"That's wonderful."

Mike continued looking at her. He didn't want to be the one who reintroduced the subject, and he hoped it wouldn't be necessary. She knew what he wanted to talk about.

"Look," Sheila said, finally, "I know the police have to follow all their leads. But I'm telling you-this is nonsense. I knew Erin, all through school. I was over at her house constantly. I knew her father-for that matter, I knew every member of the family. If there had been something going on, something... horrible, I would've known about it. There's no way I could have not known about it."

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, if you're certain." Mike paused. "Did you know the gun that killed Erin was coated with hyperthermal luminous paraffin?"

Baxter gave him a long look, but remained quiet.

"No," Sheila said. "I don't even know what that is."

"It's like invisible paint. Rubs off on anyone who fires the gun."

"So?"

"So all we have to do is find the perp and put his hand under the luminal scanner. Unmistakable ID."

"Wouldn't it wear off after a few days?"

Mike shook his head. "Absent a special chemical bath, it wouldn't wear off for a year."

"So," Sheila said, knotting her fingers together, "that stuff must've gotten all over Erin's hand."

"It was," Mike said. "But my partner here thinks maybe... it got on someone else's hand as well."

"That's ridiculous."

"Yeah. I think so, too." He slapped his knees. "But if there is someone else, we'll catch him. No one can stay clear of the police for long. Did you know we can listen in on phone calls now?"

Baxter's eyebrows moved closer together, but she maintained her silence.

"We can get lists from the phone company. Tells us who called who and when."

Sheila's lips twitched. "I didn't know that."

"Yeah. Times are changing." He pushed himself out of his chair. Baxter followed. "Thank you for talking to us."

"Sure." She hesitated a moment. Mike got the distinct impression there was something else she wanted to say. "I know you're just doing your jobs. But I do hope that eventually...
soon
... you'll put this to rest. Put Erin to rest. She endured so much more than I could ever have handled. I don't know how she did it. And I understand that, finally, she just couldn't take it any longer. Thought she couldn't go on." Her eyes began to water. "I have to let her go now. I told you that before. I have to move on. But I can't do that when you people keep coming around, asking questions, stirring it all up again." She looked at Mike, tears beading in her eyes. "Please let it go. Please. Let her go."

Miss Jackson's was one of the oldest and most elite shopping emporiums in Tulsa. Technically a department store, it preferred to be thought of as a boutique (a three-story one), presumably to prevent comparisons to Sears and such. Nestled in the upscale Utica Square Mall, Miss Jackson's was a bastion of well-heeled Tulsa society, the one place you could find Bruce Webber jewelry, Herendon china, Rolex watches, and a myriad of other lovely nonessential products linked by only one factor: they were all ungodly expensive.

Which explained why Ben never shopped at Miss Jackson's. In fact, most of Utica Square was so far out of his reach he didn't even like to visit. Well, maybe for dinner at the award-winning Polo Grill, ever since Christina got his name put on a plaque behind one of the booths as a birthday present. But shopping? Not hardly. Nonetheless, here he was on the first floor of Miss Jackson's, watching the resident cosmetologist make over a matronly woman who clearly had nothing better to do with her day than, well, be made over.

"Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful!" the woman said, when the work was at last complete. "I can't wait to show George. He's waiting in the car."

The cosmetologist blinked. "Your husband is waiting in the car?"

"My husband?" the woman said as she gathered her purchases. "George is my poodle."

As soon as she was gone, Ben sidled up to the cosmetics counter. "Got anything in my color?"

It only took her a moment to place his face. "Ben." The initial smile faded. "What brings you here?"

Ben extended his hands. "I was thinking maybe you could do my nails."

"Oh, no." She picked up a mascara pencil. "Let me do your eyes. That's my specialty. And you have such long luscious eyelashes. Most women would kill for those."

Ben grinned. "How have you been, Carrie?"

"I've been well, actually." She paused. "And you know why?"

"Because you haven't had to talk to me?"

"Very close." She glanced over her shoulder, checking to see if anyone was watching them. "I suppose this is about Ray."

"Of course."

She pushed away from the counter. "I can't talk to you, then."

"Carrie, please."

"Not about Ray, no."

"Carrie, it's important."

She wrapped her arms around herself. "I'm sure it is. It always is."

"Do you know where Ray is right now?"

"I've got a pretty good idea, yeah."

"He's on death row."

"He's been on death row for seven years."

"Well, he won't be in less than two weeks."

"Because-" The light dawned. She looked downward. "Oh."

"That's why I need to talk with you. We've only got one chance. And frankly, it's not much of a chance. But we've got to take it."

She turned away. "I still can't talk to you."

"If it's because you're working, I can come back-"

"No. It's not that. I just... can't talk to you."

"Carrie, Ray's life is literally on the line here. If we-"

"Are you listening to me, Ben?" The sudden increase in volume took them both by surprise. "I'm not saying I won't talk to you." Her eyes rose until they found his. "I'm saying you don't want me to talk to you."

"So what do you think?"

They had traveled in silence for the first ten minutes of the drive downtown, and Baxter thought that was long enough. "Do you believe Sheila?"

Mike didn't mince words. "No."

"You're kidding."

"She's holding something back. Or flat out lying."

"Really. Well, tell me this, super-sleuth. What possible motive could Sheila Knight have for lying about whether her deceased best friend was sexually molested?"

Mike thought a long time before answering. "When they were young, Erin and Sheila were nearly inseparable. They spent lots of time together. As Sheila said herself, she was a frequent guest at Erin's house. She came over for play dates, study nights, birthday parties." He paused. "And sleepovers."

"So you did break up with Ray," Ben said. "And you did it for a reason. A reason other than the fact that he'd been convicted of murder."

After Carrie made some excuse to her supervisor, they'd left the store and begun strolling down the sidewalks of the outdoor mall. It was a gorgeous Tulsa day, and the bustling human and vehicular traffic gave them a feeling of anonymity. "It's been so long."

"But there was something else."

"Yes. Even before he was arrested. After our engagement."

Ben felt an aching in the pit of his stomach. He didn't like the direction this was taking. But he had to press on. "What happened?"

"It's not good."

Which might explain why Ray hadn't wanted Ben to talk to her. "Still-"

"It won't help your case."

"Let me be the judge of that."

"I'm telling you-"

"I know you're trying to help me, Carrie. And trying to help Ray. Or not hurt him, at any rate. But if I don't make a breakthrough soon, we're going to go down in flames at the habeas hearing. And if I have to swallow some bad information to get to that breakthrough-so be it."