Love is Murder (46 page)

He stopped and looked at her in the moonlight. “Am I?”

“Aren’t you?” He was silent, and she glanced out over the ocean, felt it rumbling over the jagged rocks below. “Do you really believe people can start over?”

A cloud passed over the moon and she couldn’t see his face. “I believe they must. A life is a terrible thing to waste.”

Her entire body was wired and numb; she realized she could die, but there was a sort of peace in it.

As she took a faltering step back, her foot slid, slipping…

He caught her…and kissed her.

At the hotel they moved into the elevator together and she pressed the button for her floor, and felt her stomach sink as the elevator rose, a sensation not unlike flying.

At the door her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the key card. He took the card from her gently and opened the door.

Inside he was not so gentle.

She welcomed the violent sweetness of his arms and mouth, the hot and tender force of his body crushing all that was left of her former self from her.

After, she lay inside his thighs, against the warm curve of his stomach. The balcony doors were open and the breeze billowed the curtains and she listened to his breath and the rolling sound of the ocean.

I’m past the point of no return. Whatever happens, at least I will have lived these few days.

And she drifted on the sound of the waves into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

She dreamed of being underwater, in underwater halls, so far underwater she began to drown, and she panicked, fighting…and then with her last gasp she realized she could breathe after all.

The halls around her looked vaguely like the hotel halls but as blue-green as the ocean. She moved through cool water as silent as space, past an occasional grouper or shark, but the beasts paid no attention to her. Then at the end of the hall she saw a tall, dark, familiar figure. She knew where he was going and what he was going to do.
It’s perfect,
she thought;
he’s flooded the hotel with water so he can slip in and out of the gallery and simply float away with the jeweled shell.

She hurried after him, as much as one could hurry in water, and if there was any need for hurry anyway, which she thought maybe there wasn’t.

Far ahead he turned into the gallery and she surged forward and was there—and she saw the case, the gems of the shell sparkling through the water.

The gallery was empty; the guard had been washed away. Nick moved elegantly through the water toward the case and pushed lightly at the glass and it tipped slowly back on the stand, just as easily as opening a book.

The shell floated out into the water, sparkling like fire, and he caught it gently in his outstretched hand.

* * *

She jolted awake to alarms—and PA announcements of an immediate evacuation of the hotel.

She grabbed for her robe and ran out through the door…to find flooded halls. She darted forward under showers of tepid water from the emergency sprinkler system, heading for the stairs. She rounded a corner—and ran into a tall form.

Nick. As soaked to the skin as she was.

She jolted back, unnerved, but he took her arms to steady her, speaking urgently and precisely through the pulsing alarms. “I woke and you were gone—I stepped out to find you and was locked out of the room, and then the alarms began… .”

Splashing, running footsteps were coming their way. Two security guards appeared down the hall.

“Hold it there!” One of them shouted ahead.

“We’re guests of the hotel,” Nick said quickly and his eyes signaled Melissa in a way she couldn’t interpret.

The guards strode forward. “Room keys, please,” the taller one ordered.

Melissa fumbled her key out of her robe pocket. “Ms. Ballard,” the guard said, reading the card with a scanner. “Sir?” He turned to Nick.

“We’re traveling together,” Melissa said. The lie was so smooth she had not realized she was going to say it until the words were out of her mouth.

The guards looked them over. “Have you been in your room all night?” The tall one demanded.

“Until the alarms started,” she said calmly.

“Both of you?”

“Of course,” she said. “What’s happening?”

“There’s been a robbery,” the guard said.

There was a long moment. No one moved.

“May we return to our room?” she asked finally. “The alarms have stopped, and we’d like to get back to bed.”

The guards looked at each other. “Yes, thank you, ma’am.”

The guards moved down the hallway, and Nick looked once, silently, into her eyes. Then they walked down the wet hall in silence.

He used her key, and closed the door behind them.

* * *

When she woke, in the big creamy bed, to the sound of the ocean, she was alone.

Alone…

She stood slowly, blinking against the sun. She pulled on her robe and stepped to the open doors…

…to look straight out onto open and endless water. The cruise ship cut its wake far below her; the ocean wind teased her bare skin, lifted her hair.

As Nick slept, she’d risen, silent and invisible as a ghost; had taken the ferry over to the Wharf and boarded the ship at dawn. She was miles away from Nassau by now.

And Nick…

Well, she’d never forget their night.

She breathed in salt air, then moved back to the bed and reached under the blankets for the golden shell, held it up in both palms to watch the jewels catch fire in the sunlight.

Some treasures were meant to be free.

* * * * *

BREAK EVEN

Pamela Callow

When he crows “Eddie Bent is back!” it seemed the tide had finally turned for our downtrodden hero. Not so fast, Mr. Bent. ~SB

Tuesday, 4:58 p.m.

“Elaine, it’s me.” Eddie Bent cradled the phone to his ear, stubbing his cigarette in the plastic lid from his morning coffee. Ash pebbled the newspaper printouts strewn on his desk. It didn’t matter that his wife couldn’t actually
see
him smoking while they conversed over the phone, she would just
know
. That’s what being married for fifteen years did to you.

“Hi, honey,” she said. “I’m on my way home. What’s up?” Two years ago, she wouldn’t have asked that question—she would have known that if he called at supper time, it meant he’d been held up on another case. At that time, he was the go-to guy for high-profile clients on the wrong side of the criminal justice system.

Eddie knew the exact moment the tide had turned: when Gregory MacIsaac, Halifax’s other top criminal defense lawyer, pulled off a coup in securing the acquittal of a politician charged with the murder of his aide—and his coaccused, represented by Eddie, took the fall. Within six months, his big cases had dried up. Eddie found himself ready to leave work by 5:00 p.m.

He didn’t like it.

So he headed to the bars. Just a couple of drinks, he’d tell himself, and then he’d go home. He didn’t think it was affecting his work, but every time another high-profile case hit the news, MacIsaac had gotten the call. Leaving him with the little shitty ones.

Eight months ago, Elaine put her foot down. Counseling had ensued. Eddie promised to drink less, come home earlier.

It seemed to have finally paid off. MacIsaac could eat his dust—Eddie had landed the Brown case. “I’ve got a new client coming in, Elaine. I’m going to be late.”

There was a slight hesitation.

“It’s Molly Brown, Elaine. You know, the girl who has been in the news all week.”

“Ohhh…” He heard the relief in her voice. “I’ll keep some dinner for you. But come home right afterward. You told Brianna you’d help with her social studies project.”

Shit. He’d totally forgotten.

“I’m not sure I’ll be home in time.”

“Eddie, you promised.”

“Elaine, this is a big case. There’s a lot of media around this.” He fought to keep the excitement from his voice. But the truth was he couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into it. The publicity would be huge. Eddie Bent was back. “It’ll be good for the firm.”

“Please don’t tell me you are choosing your firm over your daughter.”

“God, Elaine, don’t twist the knife.” He
needed
this case. “That trip down south we’re taking will cost us an arm and a leg. This case could generate a lot of billables.”

She exhaled. Heavily. “Fine. But just so you know, they’re forecasting another storm tonight. Make sure you get home before the snow starts.”

“Another storm? We just had one last week.”

“It’s February. Remember? That’s why we want to go south.” He could hear the wry smile in her voice. Anyone in Halifax knew that February was a month to be avoided. Ice, snow, rain, wind. Never ended. “But try not to be too late.”

He smiled to himself. “Drive safely. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” That was said with a pleasing sincerity. He was glad he’d made an effort on Valentine’s Day.

He was still smiling when his assistant knocked on his door. “Miss Brown is here.” She ushered in a young woman wearing a thin navy blue pea jacket with a backpack hiked on one shoulder.

He stepped around his desk and held out his hand. “Molly, I’m Eddie Bent.”

She gave him a hesitant smile and clasped his hand. Her fingers were freezing. “Hi.”

“Please, sit down.” He sat behind his desk, studying her as she slipped off her coat and settled into the comfy armchair facing him. She had one of those faces that seemed familiar—a “look,” as his mother used to say. Pretty. Soft. Attractive. With her honey-brown hair smoothed off a pleasingly high brow, she would attract second glances. He decided that if she had to appear before a jury, she should wear her hair just like that. He skimmed her clothes. The outfit worked, too. Cropped cardigan in a delicate plum color, modest crew neck T-shirt underneath, dark pants. His daughter—whom he realized might resemble this girl in six years or so— always made of fun of him for knowing “girls’” fashion when he had such poor style himself. But knowing what made his clients look good—trustworthy, credible,
innocent
—was his job. “Coffee, tea, a cold drink?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” She folded her hands across her knees. Unlike most girls her age, she wore no nail polish. Her nails were neatly trimmed, her only adornment a Celtic ring on her right hand.

“So, Molly, tell me why you need my help. I’ve read about your case in the paper, but as far as I’m aware, you haven’t been charged with anything, right?”

She nodded. “But the police keep calling me. They told me yesterday they wanted me to come for questioning. Again. I’ve told them everything I know, but they won’t leave me alone.” Tears pricked her eyes. “Why do they keep bugging me? I’m the
victim
. Not him.”

Why indeed? She had been raped, and killed her attacker.

The police must have found evidence to suggest that Dr. Nicholson’s death could not be justified as self-defense. Interesting.

“I know what the newspapers say,” Eddie tapped the open file folder piled with media printouts. “But I want you to tell me, in your own words, what happened, Molly.”

She looked away, a flush radiating across her face. It provided a garish contrast to her blackened right eye. He glanced at the date of birth scrawled on the inside of his file folder. She was eighteen years old. A woman. And yet, the soft wisp of hair curling around her earlobe struck him as poignantly childlike.

Molly cleared her throat. “It happened last Monday. I went to my forensic biology class, like usual. It’s an elective. I’m premed,” she added. “Dr. Nicholson is—was—” she flushed a bit darker but held on to her composure “—one of the lecturers. He was teaching that night.” She glanced at Eddie. He bet she was expecting him to write this down. He knew that if he did, she would become conscious of her words, of how she told the story. So instead, he played with a pen, giving the appearance of relaxed curiosity.

“After the class ended, I left. But I realized I’d forgotten my textbook. So I went back. The classroom is upstairs in the library, in the very far end.”

And it was there that you stabbed the good doctor to death.

Were you really carrying a knife like the press says, Molly Brown?

She took a deep breath. “When I walked into the classroom, it was dark. He must have put two and two together and heard me come back, because when I got there, he was standing behind the door. I reached over to flip on the switch… .” Her voice was low, husky now. Tears. “I felt an arm hook me around the neck… . He yanked me back and stuffed a sock in my mouth. He kicked the door shut. He called me names. Said I was a slut, said that I was asking for it—” She looked away, shame imprinted on those even features. “Then he punched me in the face. He told me to roll onto my stomach—” Her voice choked off. She tried a weak smile. Apologetic. It made Eddie wince. Rape victims always got under his skin. The shame, the guilt, the burden they carried that they somehow provoked the violence that was perpetrated on them. “It’s not like I’m a virgin,” she whispered. “But he wanted—” She swallowed.

He wanted to sodomize her.

“He yanked my arm. He flipped me over and twisted my arm behind my back. He kept saying, ‘I know exactly how far a joint can handle this pressure before it breaks.’”

Eddie’s eyes skimmed her arms, but they were covered with her cardigan.

She had begun shivering now. “I fought him, but I couldn’t stop him.” She hugged her arms. “I couldn’t stop him.” She didn’t seem to be aware that she repeated herself. Her eyes were bleak. Unreadable.
Like a fog bank concealing the depths of the ocean,
Eddie thought. “The next thing I knew, I was covered in blood. And he was dead.”

The police acknowledged that sexual intercourse had occurred. Molly had admitted to the press that she had been sodomized. “Molly,” Eddie said, his voice gentle. “Are you sure you can’t remember what happened after he raped you? It could help your case.”

The look she gave him was the despair of someone who knows there is no going back. No going back to the carefree university student who demurely flirted with the guy seated next to her in class, Eddie thought.