Guilty as Sin (48 page)

"I just feel so damn helpless, Mitch," she admitted as he carefully tucked a pillow beneath her damaged knee. She heard the little tremor in her voice and knew he had, as well.

"I know you do, honey. I know exactly."

He had been in the same boat, hadn't he? she thought. On rougher seas than this. He had been a detective on the Miami force at the time his wife and son had been gunned down. She knew damn well he wouldn't have been allowed within a hundred yards of the investigation. And the guilt still weighed on him.

"It's so hard," she whispered, sliding her good hand over his. "We're cops. We're trained to think a certain way, to act, to go after the bad guys. To have that taken away when we need it most . . . It's hard."

Mitch settled himself on the couch beside her, draping his right arm behind her shoulders. Friday, the black cat, hopped onto a stereo speaker box, curled his paws beneath him, and watched them across the gathering gloom of late afternoon.

"You still haven't told me what your surgeon had to say yesterday."

Megan looked away. If she stared at her cat instead of at Mitch, it would be easier to lie, and that was what she wanted to do—lie, to Mitch, to herself.

"What does he know?" she muttered.

Mitch held back a sigh. Bad news. News that hurt her and frightened her, not that she would want to admit to either, or to concede defeat.

"Yeah." He drew her over to lean against him. "It's too soon for them to know anything for sure."

"It is," she said, her voice tightening. She settled her cheek into the hollow ofVis shoulder, and he could feel her chin quivering. "They can't know yet."

She didn't want to hear it yet. She wasn't ready to accept it, wouldn't go down without a fight. As much as Mitch admired her courage, he knew it would only make it harder for her in the end. He already knew the prognosis. He had called her doctor, lied and told him he was Megan's brother Mick. The hospital would release information only to family, and Megan's family didn't give a rat's ass what happened to her.

The best thing the orthopedic surgeon had to say was that they hadn't had to amputate her hand. There would be more surgery and months of physical therapy, but it was unlikely she would ever regain full mobility.

Mitch would have sent Garrett Wright to the blackest pit of hell for what he'd done to Megan, to Josh, to Hannah, to Deer Lake. If he was lucky, he would get to help send him to prison. Justice and the law were seldom one and the same. He had learned that lesson the hard way a long time ago.

"We have to get him, Mitch," Megan mumbled against his chest, where her tears soaked into his flannel shirt. "He has to pay."

"He'll pay, sweetheart." Mitch wrapped his arms around her, hoping to God the promise didn't sound as hollow to Megan's ears as it did to his own.

She sniffed and raised her head, fighting to force one corner of her mouth up. "Don't call me sweetheart."

"I will if I want to," Mitch growled, gladly falling into what had already become an old joke between them. "What are you gonna do about it, O'Malley? Beat me up?"

"Yeah. With one hand in a cast."

The smile sobered. Her gaze remained locked on his. "What am I going to do, Mitch? Being a cop is all I've ever wanted."

He brushed a tear from her cheek. "But it's not all you've got, Megan. You've got me. You'll find a way around the obstacles. And I'll be there, hanging on to your good hand."

"Jeez, Holt," she whispered, leaning up to kiss him. "You ought to write that down for Hallmark."

CHAPTER
 
26

The music wasn't half-bad—a fusion of blues and rock with lyrics by an English major. The band was a campus group that called themselves HarriSons. The lead singer was a rangy, raw-boned kid in ripped blue jeans and a sweaty T-shirt. He hugged an old red Stratocaster guitar and squeezed his eyes shut tight beneath the brim of a dirty baseball ap as he coaxed the music out of his soul.

Jay took a long pull on his three-dollar beer and did a slow scan of the place. Wright's followers had taken over the Pla-Mor Ballroom, a dance Lall located just off campus. The Pla-Mor had apparently hit its peak in the forties and had not been changed a lick since. The dance floor had been sanded dull by decades of scuffing feet. The lights were kept low to serve the dual purpose of setting a mood and hiding the fact that huge scabs of plaster had flaked off the walls.

The place was likely cheap, and it was handy and served its purpose well enough. There were enough tables and chairs for 250—all of them all. The place was SRO. It looked as if everyone in Deer Lake who believed in Wright's innocence had felt compelled to trudge out into the cold night to show their support. At five bucks a head admission, and with the jacked-up prices on the beer and setups and the Sci-Fi Cowboys' fifteen-dollar T-shirts, Wright's supporters would probably raise enough tonight to pay for a couple days' worth of Anthony Costello's time.

The man himself sat at the table of honor, his client beside him, the pair of them holding court like monarchs. Wright's wife and Costello's lackeys filled the rest of the chairs. A steady stream of students and what were probably faculty members offered words of friendship and support. Wright's expression was serene. Not the cocky, bullshit arrogance of his attorney, but a glassy calm, as if he knew something the rest of them didn't.

I want inside his mind, Jay thought, but knew he would have to wait. If Costello allowed the good doctor to say anything at all before the hearing, it would only be more propaganda. Still, the experience of an introduction was in itself useful, and so, as the band announced its break, he pushed himself out of the dark corner he had taken as his watch post and sauntered toward the table.

He spotted no fewer than three plainclothes cops. A squad car sat in the parking lot. If the accomplice showed with Dustin Holloman in tow, they'd be on him like flies on roadkill. But if he showed up the same way everyone else showed up, looking ordinary, unassuming, offering Dr. Wright nothing more than a handshake and a smile, would anyone be the wiser?

There was nothing to make Wright himself stand out in a crowd, no glowing eyes, no sign of the devil branded into his forehead. That was what frightened and fascinated people most—that monsters moved among them, unknown, unsuspected. They stood behind them in the line at the bank, bumped carts with them at the Piggly Wiggly. It was just that factor that kept readers returning to his work, Jay knew—the need to pull cases apart in the attempt to see the signs that should have been obvious to those involved. Too many times there was nothing there to see.

Costello spotted him before he reached the table, and a big, hungry smile stretched across the lawyer's face. He rose to offer the kind of hand-pumping, back-thumping greeting that struck Jay as too familiar. He endured it with a pained smile.

"Jay, I'm glad you could make it to our little soiree!" Costello said, the benevolent host although he'd had nothing to do with setting up the party. "We heard you had a little adventure last night."

"That's one word for it." Jay discreetly rotated the sore right shoulder Costello had slapped. He had crawled out of the sack after noon feeling as if he had been trampled by a herd of Clydesdales. Only steady, low-dose self-medication of the Jack Daniel's variety had taken the edge off the aches.

"And of course the cops are trying to somehow associate that break-in with Dr. Wright." Costello made a grave face at the injustice. "The level of incompetence here is unbelievable."

The usual defense attorney shuck-and-jive. The cops are screwups, the prosecutors thickheaded plodders with no view of the big picture. Jay knew the drill. He had spouted the same trash talk himself once upon a time. He let it go in one ear and out the other as he turned to look at Garrett Wright—who was watching him with steady dark eyes and a placid half smile.

"Mr. Brooks," he said, rising, offering a hand that seemed nearly delicate. "Anthony tells me you've taken an interest in the case with an eye toward doing a book."

"Possibly. Depends on how it all shakes out in the end."

The smile took on amusement. "You mean it depends on my guilt? Quite a commentary on our society, isn't it? People don't want to read about innocence. They want twists, betrayal, blood."

"That's nothing new, Dr. Wright. People used to pay money to go to hangings—and they took their kids."

"So they did," he conceded with a tip of his head. "Perhaps what mankind has been evolving toward all these centuries is simply a more streamlined, brilliant savagery."

"That would certainly explain serial criminals, wouldn't it?" Jay said. "You might just have a topic there for your next academic publish-or-perish project, Dr. Wright."

"No, no. Learning and perception are my areas of expertise. I don't pretend to be an expert on criminal behavior."

Then again, maybe he didn't have to pretend. Jay reserved the comment, filing it away for future use in print. He let his gaze slide to Wright's wife, who sat beside him, pale almost to the point of appearing translucent. She flicked a nervous glance up at him, and a fleeting smile trembled across her mouth as she looked away. She looked distinctly unhappy when Christopher Priest slid into the chair beside her.

In an effort to look hip, the professor had dressed himself up in a black turtleneck a size too small. It clung to his bony shoulders like a diver's wet suit, the effect making his head look gigantic. He leaned ahead of Karen Wright to snag Garrett's attention.

"We've sold out of T-shirts. The boys are ecstatic."

"They should be proud," Costello interjected. He turned a shrewd eye back to Jay, shifting his position subtly to block Wright and the professor from view. "You know, Jay, this story could be told from a number of perspectives. Dr. Wright's innocence—the rallying of his friends, colleagues, students—"

"The brilliance of his attorney." Jay forced a grin. "Damned if this isn't sounding like a sales pitch, Tony."

Costello didn't bother to feign contrition. "I would be remiss if I failed to cultivate all possible venues to express my client's innocence."

"Yeah, and we've all heard what happens to attorneys who don't defend their clients with vigor," Jay said dryly, making a gun out of his thumb and forefinger and holding it to his temple.

Costello's face reddened. "Dr. Wright was still in jail at the time of Enberg's death. He would have to be something other than human to have been involved."

Jay arched his brows, just for the pleasure of seeing Costello's blood pressure jump a notch. To his credit the attorney reined in his temper before it could do more than tighten his smile.

"Jay," he said, slapping the sore shoulder again. "You're wasting your talents. You'd give Lee Bailey a run for his money in cross-examination."

"Yeah, but then that'd be work," Jay drawled. "I'd sooner watch. Leave the tough stuff to you and Lee."

Ellen watched the exchange of grins and handshakes from just inside the door.

"What would you say if I told you I don't know Costello from a sack of pigfeed?"

That you're a liar, Mr. Brooks.

She had wanted to believe him and he had betrayed her. A sense of loss accompanied the anger as she watched them together.

It certainly had the look of best pals. A laugh, a grin, a slap on the back. Brooks and Costello, the law-school alums. A complementing pair of sharks—Costello the formal predator in a steel-gray Versace suit, Brooks the yuppie-turned-street person in creased Dockers and battered, unshaven face. And beside Costello, Garrett Wright, who turned and looked straight at her across the room. He smiled slowly, knowingly.

Ellen moved, seeking out the cover of a gaggle of tall college boys, cursing herself for giving in to the urge to come here. She and Cameron had worked until nine—Phoebe had begged off at eight, urgently needed in places unknown—then gone for a late dinner at Grandma's Attic. She should have gone home after Grandma's hot apple crisp. She should have, at this very minute, been deeply unconscious in her bed.

But the temptation had been too great—just to slip in for a few moments, to see for herself the kind of turnout, the mood and look of the crowd. The event had started at seven. The press would be long gone by nine, sound bites recorded, photos shot. She would be able to slip in, stay

in the shadows, observe. By the time the money takers at the door spread the word of her presence, she would have seen enough and slipped back out. It seemed worth five dollars, even if that money was going to Wright's defense fund.