Guilty as Sin (3 page)

The courtrooms on the third floor were the kind of rooms that called to mind Henry Clay and Clarence Darrow. Between the judges' benches, the jury boxes, and the pews for spectators, a sizable forest of oak trees had fallen for the cause. The wooden floors were worn pale in spots from the pacing of generations of lawyers.

He was well familiar with courthouses like this one, though he had never been anywhere near
Deer Lake,
Minnesota
. Nor would he ever care to venture back here once his mission was accomplished. Damned cold place.

It was a safe bet the
Park
County
courthouse was seldom as busy as it was today. The halls were bustling, not with staff, but with reporters and :ameramen and newspaper photographers jockeying for position in front sf a podium bristling with microphones. He leaned over the second-floor ailing and looked down through the dark lenses of a pair of mirrored nilitary-issue sunglasses.

The kidnapping of Josh Kirkwood had garnered national attention, rhe arrest of Dr. Garrett Wright had only turned up the fever pitch another hundred degrees. All the major networks were represented, their correspondents instantly recognizable. The syndicated tabloid news shows were here in force, as well, their people skirting the periphery like hyenas looking to snatch a juicy tidbit from the big network lions. Forced to scramble for camera angles were the local newspeople. They had been thrown into the big pond and clearly didn't care to swim with the big fish, but there it was. The story was bigger than small-town sensibilities and small-town manners. It was as big as
America and as intimate as family.

Good juxtaposition of images. He committed the line to memory.

The scene below was not unlike a movie set waiting for the arrival of the stars. Lights, cameras, grips, technicians, makeup people dabbing the shine off foreheads and noses.

" 'All the world's a stage,' " he mumbled with cynical humor, his voice raspy from too many cigars and too little sleep the night before. The price of schmoozing. You oiled the wheels with good whiskey and smooth talk, easy smiles and expensive cigars—all to be chased the following morning with a handful of aspirin and a gallon of strong coffee.

He turned slowly for a casual glance at the reporters waiting outside the door to the county attorney's offices thirty feet down the hall. No one paid him any mind. He wore no press pass, had not been asked for any ID. He could have been anyone. He could have been a sniper; there were no metal detectors at the doors of the
Park
County
courthouse. Another detail to file away for future reference. The case was the focus of everyone here to the exclusion of all else. Elvis could have been sweeping the floors and no one would have so much as glanced twice.

He counted this tunnel vision as being both potentially useful and a blessing to him personally. He could live without the interference as he got himself in where he wanted to be. Inside. The bird's-eye view. The catbird seat. Into the inner workings of the small-town justice system taking on a big-time case.

The door to the county attorney's offices opened and the reporters started shouting questions, sending up a racket like a pack of baying foxhounds. He straightened from the railing and propped himself up against a marble pillar, careful to remain in its shadow, his hands stuffed into the pockets of the black parka he had bought after getting off the plane in Minneapolis.

A uniformed sheriff's deputy cleared a path, leading the way for the man he recognized as Rudy Stovich. Tall, rawboned, with a face like Mr. Potato Head and kinky wire-gray hair that was slicked down into a marcel look with a quart of something greasy. Stovich had been featured in one of many news clippings about the case, scowling at the camera, piously promising to prosecute the villains to the fullest extent of the law. It would be interesting to hear what he had to say now that it appeared the villain was not some slimy ex-con from the wrong side of town and the lower end of the evolutionary ladder, but a psychology professor from their own exclusive college.

Garrett Wright was the twist that made the story unique, the hook that made it bankable instead of cliched.

Stovich stepped into the hall, waving off the shouted questions, mugging an expression of exaggerated impatience. A woman fell into step beside him. Cool, composed, blond hair the shade of polished gold, features that were more interesting than striking. Ellen North, rumored to have her ambitious eye on the county attorney's corner office. She walked past the reporters without making eye contact, a queen oblivious to the presence of the unwashed masses. Classy, self-possessed, not rattled by the attention of the press. Intriguing.

He stayed where he was as the mob passed by and headed down the steps for the first floor. Show time.

No director could have choreographed the scene more perfectly. Just as Stovich and his entourage reached the first floor, the main doors of the courthouse swung open and State Attorney General William Glendenning and his cadre made their grand entrance. They came into the building on a gust of cold air, stamping the snow from their shoes, their cheeks and noses polished cherry-red with cold. Stovich and Glendenning shook hands as flashes went off in blinding starbursts.

Glendenning opened the proceedings. A seasoned politician, he looked good before the lights—solid, conservative, trustworthy. A pair of rimless spectacles gave him a certain resemblance to Franklin Roosevelt— more emphasis on trust and old-fashioned values. He spoke with a strong, confident voice. Platitudes and promises of justice, assurances of his trust in the system and his trust in Rudy Stovich and his staff. He sounded impressive while he actually said very little; a handy trick in an election year.

Stovich followed, stony-faced and serious, his old photo-gray glasses cockeyed, his suit looking like something he had pulled out of a laundry basket. His necktie was too short. He told everyone he was deeply troubled by the events that had rocked his community. He was just a country awyer who had never imagined he would have to deal with a case of this lature—which was why he was passing the buck to Assistant County Attorney Ellen North. She had the kind of courtroom experience it would take. She was young and sharp and relentless in her pursuit of justice.

"Slick move, Rudy," he mumbled, leaning once again on the railing. "Slick as snot, you old country fox."

Dumping the case on her was calculated damage control. He painted himself as a man concerned for justice above all else, willing to admit there was someone better suited to achieve that end—and a woman, no less, scoring a point for him with the growing faction of enlightened young professionals in his constituency. At the same time, he distanced himself from the prosecution, deflected the blows of public criticism, and kept his bulbous nose clean. If Ellen North won, Rudy would look like a wise and humble genius. If she lost, it would be entirely her fault.

Whether Stovich had a genuine respect for his assistant or was in fact throwing her to the wolves was another twist with possibilities. One thing was perfectly clear as Ellen North stepped up to the podium: she wasn't afraid of the job or the press.

Her statement was brief and to the point: she intended to prosecute this case aggressively and win justice for the victims. She would do all that was in her power to try to find the answer to the ultimate question in this situation: the whereabouts of Josh Kirkwood. She refused to take questions from the press, deftly maneuvering her boss back into the spotlight. Ever grateful for a press opportunity in an election year, Stovich grabbed the chance, pulling Glendenning into the limelight with him. Photos with the head honcho of the state's justice system always made for nice campaign posters.

Ellen North snagged a deputy for protection and made her break for the stairs. He watched as several reporters broke away from the pack to pursue her. She stopped them with a look and a sharp "No comment," never slowing her step.

"Mmm—mmm, Ms. North," he growled under his breath as she mounted the steps, the hem of her deep-green skirt swirling around her calves. "I do believe I am in lust."

She came down the hall, the low heels of her boots smacking sharply against the polished floor, all business and no distractions; her mind occupied by things other than the notion that someone might be watching her from the shadows.

He didn't look like the kind of man who could steal a child and plunge a community into a vortex of fear. Ellen had met Garrett Wright at a number of civic functions over the past two years. He had seemed pleasant enough, not the type to draw attention to himself. He would have melted into a crowd if not for the almost pretty quality of his face—a fine, alabaster oval with a slim nose and a prim mouth.

He took his seat with as much dignity as he could, considering the rattling of the hardware the police had used to accessorize the blaze -orange city-jail jumpsuit. "Ms. North," he said with a spare smile. "I would say it's a pleasure to see you again, but considering the circumstances ..."

He shrugged, lifting his shackled hands by way of further explanation, then settled them gently on the tabletop. Smooth, pale hands with no scrapes, no contusions, no obvious signs of having struck a woman repeatedly. Ellen wondered if he had put his hands before her knowing she would look. She raised her gaze to his. His eyes were a deep, fathomless brown, large, almost drowsy looking behind lashes most women would have killed for.

"This isn't a social call, Dr. Wright," she said crisply. "Pleasure doesn't enter into it."

"Ms. North will be handling the prosecution," Dennis Enberg explained. He turned to Ellen. "I hear Rudy put on a good show at the press conference."

"I'm surprised you weren't there."

The attorney shrugged it off. "Not my style. It was Rudy's circus. No place for a pissing contest."

In her two-year acquaintance with Dennis Enberg, she would have said it was exactly his style to crash the county attorney's party if he thought it would do him good. She had certainly never known him to demur for the sake of manners. It struck Ellen as a tactical error. Had she seen Wright's attorney, she would certainly have done her best to steal Hudy's thunder, if only to make the obvious perfunctory statement of her :lient's innocence.

"Denny, you know Cameron Reed," she said, nodding to the young nan sitting to her left at the fake wood-grain table.

The men half rose from their chairs to shake hands—Enberg, thirty-even and pudgy with brown hair in serious retreat from his forehead, and Cameron Reed, twenty-eight and fit beyond reason, his hair a shock of ich copper that came with a full accompaniment of freckles. Two years ut of Mitchell Law, he was sharp and eager, a true anomaly in the Park bounty office. How he had ended up in
Park
County
was beyond Ellen-though that thought always brought her up short. No one would have expected her to be here, either.

"Dr. Wright, your bond hearing is set for ten o'clock tomorrow morning," she began. "I want you to be aware of the fact that the State intends to serve you at that time with a complaint charging you with a long list of felonies regarding the kidnapping of Josh Kirkwood and the kidnapping and assault of BCA agent Megan O'Malley."

She glanced up at Wright over the rims of a pair of reading glasses that were more prop than prescription. He seemed almost impassive, returning her gaze with his steady dark eyes. No one spoke, and for a few seconds Ellen had the strange sensation that Cameron and Enberg had somehow been frozen out of the moment.

"Is that supposed to induce me to confess to crimes I didn't commit?" he asked quietly.

"It's a statement of fact, Dr. Wright. I want you to be fully aware of my intent to prosecute."

Enberg's brows drew together. "I heard rumors of a grand jury."

"I don't need a grand jury. Of course, if Josh Kirkwood isn't returned, I may well convene a grand jury to consider murder charges based on the evidence we have."

"Murder!" The exclamation propelled Enberg half a foot off the seat of his chair. "Jesus, Ellen! Isn't that a little premature?"

"Even as we speak, the state crime lab is conducting tests on the bloody sheet your client wrapped around Agent O'Malley. Evidence—he said so himself."

"So says a woman who was, by her own admission, drugged and beaten senseless—"

"The lab has confirmed that in addition to Agent O'Malley's blood, there is blood on the sheet type AB negative. Josh Kirkwood's blood type."

"And a billion other people's!"

"Clear evidence of grievous bodily harm," she continued. "From this evidence we might deduce that the reason the police aren't finding Josh is that Josh is dead."

"Oh, for—" Enberg sputtered, at a loss for a suitable diatribe. The red in his face pushed out to the rims of his ears. Seemingly unable to contain his temper to the confines of a chair, he rose and began to pace along the end of the table.