Guilty as Sin (57 page)

"Nothing." Phoebe's gaze landed everywhere but Ellen's face. "That's his name, that's all. What am I supposed to call him?"

"A distant memory," Ellen suggested sharply. "We've talked about this, Phoebe. He's a reporter. Being cute doesn't cancel that out."

"You don't know him," Phoebe said stiffly.

"Neither do you."

"I'd never get to know anyone if I was as paranoid as you are. Just because you never trust anyone doesn't mean people aren't trustworthy."

"That's an admirable attitude," Ellen said impatiently. "But you know something, Phoebe? This isn't Mister Rogers's neighborhood. This is a big case full of bad people out to get what they can and to hell with everyone else. So maybe you could do us a favor and grow up. You can make nice with anyone you want after it's over."

Phoebe stood abruptly and gathered up her notebook and a messy stack of files. "If you're through lecturing me, I'll go make those phone calls to the BCA now."

Ellen pulled a typed list of names and numbers from one of the files and held it out.

"After you call the BCA, please call these probation officers and see if they've got anything for me."

"You're so insensitive!" Phoebe charged. Dumping the files onto the table, she ran out of the room.

"I'm guessing it was something you said," Cameron offered with a pained look. "Are you going after her?"

"No, dammit. I'm not her mother. I'm her bitch-queen boss," Ellen muttered glumly.

She had more important things to expend her energy on than her secretary's love life. What difference did it really make, anyway? Slater's paper didn't mean anything to anyone who didn't live in Grand Forks.

She put her head in her hands and groaned. "Why didn't God make all secretaries postmenopausal?"

"Because then male bosses would never get any exercise chasing them around their desks?" Cameron offered.

A weak chuckle rippled out of her. Sobering, she raised her head and looked at her bright-eyed young associate.

"I've got a bad feeling, Cameron," she confessed. "The day before the hearing, and our boy pulls a stunt like that call to Dustin Holloman's mother. What do you think he might have in store for the main event?"

"I don't know," he admitted quietly.

Ellen stared out the window at the ominous gray of the sky and felt foreboding thicken the air around her. "I don't want to know."

The old habits came back, like ghosts, unwanted, unwelcome, bringing with them an uneasy sense of deja vu. In her days on the fast track, the night before a major court appearance became a time of ritual, almost superstition. Too wired to relax, too afraid there was something she had overlooked in her preparation, Ellen would spend the evening in her office, poring over and over the evidence, the questions she wanted answered, the strategy she intended to employ against her opponent.

In the two years since she had come to Deer Lake, there had been no nights like that. Until this one. In the usual course of Park County events, a omnibus hearing would last twenty minutes and there would be half a dozen scheduled for a morning—most of which would never take place because the defendant would plead out. Garrett Wright's hearing would be a whole different kind of circus. Because of the charges. Because of the defendant. Because of Costello. This would be a minitrial, complete with all the drama.

She shooed Cameron out the door at eight-thirty but flatly refused to go with him. She both needed and hated the need to fall back into the old rhythms. She both recognized and resented the edgy restlessness that hummed through her like an electric current.

It pushed her out of her chair and walked her up and down the length of the conference table, where she had spread out every document, every note they had. The heat in the building had been turned down into the frigeration zone again, the county commissioners unwilling to bend the utility budget for the comfort of one attorney. She paced with her coat on, vaguely amazed that she couldn't see her breath.

They had enough. Megan's and Mitch's statements alone should have been enough to get Wright bound over for trial. In addition, they would have the testimony of the BCA criminalist as to the preliminary findings a the ski mask that had yielded Wright's hair, and the sheet Wright had rapped around Megan, the sheet that had yielded strands of Josh's hair had more of Wright's hair, and bloodstains that were consistent with Josh Kirkwood's blood type. It should have all made for a prosecution slam dunk, but still the doubts crept in, eroded her confidence, choked her. Old, familiar feelings.

As Mitch had predicted, Wilhelm had not yet returned from Rochester. The call to Dustin HoUoman's mother had been traced to a pay phone in a mall, where there had to have been a number of witnesses. The BCA and local cops had spent hours canvassing the stores and hallways, showing Dustin's photograph, asking people if they had seen anyone suspicious using the phones, asking if they might have seen anyone using a small tape recorder at the phones.

It would have been lunacy for the kidnapper to drag the boy himself into such a public place. Every newspaper and television station in the state had been flashing Dustin's picture since the night of his disappearance. Most likely the kidnapper had recorded Dustin's message and played the tape over the phone.

Still a risky proposition, Ellen thought as she made another slow circuit around the table. Brazen. Bold. He was feeling cocky, invincible. He had taken a careless chance just for the purpose of tying up the BCA. Or perhaps what he wanted was the public acknowledgment of his brilliance. But all it would take was one witness, one bored store clerk, one man sitting on a bench waiting for his wife, one teenager impatient to use the same phone, and they would have a description.

The prospect brought a small adrenaline rush—another old, familiar feeling. There had always been a high associated with cracking a big case; a tense excitement in watching the cops close in, knowing that the next part was her part.

It stirred within her now at the thought of Wilhelm bringing back a description, an artist's sketch, a videotape from a security camera. Who would they see? Todd Childs? Or someone they had never seen before?

Adam Slater's question about the Sci-Fi Cowboys came back to her as she stopped along the section of table where their file was laid out. None of the boys had been considered suspects in the kidnapping, but she now had firsthand knowledge of the lengths to which they would go to support their mentor. If they would commit vandalism, if they would commit arson, what else might they do? She had a good idea from their rap sheets—they had committed robbery, car theft, assault, drug deals, attempted rape. Would it be a stretch to include kidnapping?

Theoretically, perhaps not. Logistically, it wasn't realistic. The Cowboys were minors, living with parents, with guardians. They attended school, answered to probation officers. Slipping out of a dorm to set a car on fire was one thing, being able to commit to the kind of complicated scenario these kidnappings had followed would require total freedom of movement. Nor was it realistic to think Garrett Wright would put his trust and his future in the hands of someone so young.

Childs was a better bet. Childs, the psych major fascinated with the human mind.

Learning and perception was Wright's specialty.

What had they done to Josh's mind? What had they planted in his young mind to make him close himself off so completely?

As her own mind pondered the questions, Ellen paged slowly through the materials they had gathered on the Cowboys. The list of past members, the photocopies of old newspaper articles. One prominent headline announced the admittance of one of the first Cowboys into the University of Minnesota Medical School. Another had won a scholarship to MIT. Success story after success story.

She went down the list of names, many of which had been checked off or had notations beside them regarding the person's whereabouts. According to Wilhelm, the people he'd had checking into the past Cowboys' were turning up nothing but young men who had become productive members of society and thanked Garrett Wright and his colleagues for it. Car thieves, vandals, burglars, gangbangers, all of whom Garrett Wright had helped turn around. Had any one of them ever seen Wright's other side? Had they ever looked into his eyes and had a moment of terrible revelation? Would they tell anyone if they had?

So far, the answer to that question was no.

Her gaze settled on an article she had reviewed before. The photo showed Christopher Priest and one of the boys in the foreground, the one who had gone on to MIT, working with a robot. Garrett Wright, with boys named James Johnston and Erik Evans, stood in the background. The article was dated May 17, 1990, the second year of the Cowboys' existence. The murkiness of the copy gave Wright a sinister look. Or perhaps it was that he hadn't realized the camera would catch him in its frame, and he had been showing his true face, the one that hid beneath the handsome mask.

The idea sent a finger of unease down Ellen's spine. Public sentiment was running higher and higher in Wright's favor. With every new exploit of Dustin Holloman's kidnapper, the public grew less patient with the prosecution—or persecution, as some saw it—of Garrett Wright, their local hero, their respected teacher.

"I'm beginning to feel like the only person in the movie who knows the charming count is a vampire," she muttered.

Pulling the telephone toward her with one hand, she reached for the list of probation officers Phoebe hadn't called.

She made contact with two, both of whom had burned out and left the job within the last year, and scratched the names of two former Cowboys off her list of possible character assassins. Montel Jones, Sci-Fi Cowboy turned engineering student at the University of Minnesota, had died in a plane crash in 1993. James Johnston had breezed through his undergraduate work in three years and was currently going for his master's in counseling. His former probation officer told Ellen that Garrett Wright's program was the reason.

Darrell Munson, probation officer to two of the original Cowboys, had left not only the profession but the state, moving to Florida to run a diving school. His answering machine picked up with steel-drum music. Ellen left a message and hung up, feeling no sense of accomplishment at all.

But, then, what had she really expected? That one of Wright's former charges would suddenly blurt out a tale of bizarre abuse after all this time? Contacting the past Cowboys had never been more than an exercise in grasping at straws.

A knock on the outer-office door broke into her concentration. It might have been Wilhelm coming with news, or Deputy Qualey, her guard for the evening, or Cameron coming back because he'd had a brainstorm.

Brooks stood in the hall holding a picnic basket.

"Why am I not surprised?" Ellen muttered. "Why would I actually believe you would stay away merely because I asked you to?"

"Can I assume that's a rhetorical question?" he asked, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"How did you get into the building?" she asked irritably. "How did you get past the guard?"

"I bribed him with a chocolate cupcake and an autographed copy of Justice for None. Good thing I'm not a psycho killer, huh?" He stepped past her and set the picnic basket down on the receptionist's counter. "I told him you and I were old friends from law school and I wanted to make sure you got supper—knowing how nervous you are the night before a big case and all."

"He's supposed to call up—"

"I told him it was a surprise. Gave him a little wink, a little nudge. He's a nice fella—Ed. A little too nice." He turned serious. "He didn't check the basket. He didn't frisk me. He figured he knew me—which, of course, he doesn't—so I must be all right."

"I don't know you, either," she said quietly. "Should I be in fear of my life?"

He took in the sight of her standing there swallowed up by her winter coat, her hair back in a haphazard knot that allowed thick strands to escape. Her eyes were bloodshot, the circles beneath them growing darker and deeper every day. This case was dragging on her, but she withstood it because it was her duty. He could have kicked himself for ever insinuating she was a coward, that she had been running away when she'd left Hennepin County.

"Actually, I think you know me pretty well," he admitted. "You sure as hell hit some nails on the head last night. I admit I'm a son of a bitch, but I'm contrite about it. Doesn't that just make you want to marry me?"

"Is that what you came here for?"

"No," he murmured. "I wanted to make sure you got supper. Knowing how nervous you must be the night before a big case and all."