Man in the Middle (39 page)

Ten minutes later, two bags tucked under his arm, Peter crawled into the back of one of the ambulances. He had soot smeared across his face, masking his features. He perched with his knees tucked to his chest, coughing convincingly. The medics attempted to put an oxygen mask over his face, but Peter indicated no. They sped off, sirens wailing. Just before the ambulance reached the freeway onramp, Peter insisted they stop. When they resisted, he opened a bag and pulled out a thousand-dollar bill, still crisp despite its age.

“You didn’t get a look at me. I held you at gunpoint. Say whatever you want. Just forget as much as you can about me and this trip.” When the driver hesitated, Peter pulled a second bill from the bag. “Two grand. That oughta do it.” The medics involuntarily nodded and Peter understood— money really could buy almost anything. It could even make people forget. Reaching into the bag one last time, Peter asked, “Anyone want to sell me their clothes?” Again, a willing seller.

A few minutes later, Peter jogged towards a hotel, up a hill overlooking the freeway. He changed clothes behind some brush and bought a room for cash. He left a message for Kate on Drew’s voice mail.

With eyes closed, he waited.

When Peter’s hotel phone woke him several hours later, he quickly picked up. “What took you so long, counselor?” he said. “I think I need an attorney.”

“You’re damn right you do.”

“You know what happened at Stenman’s?”

“No,” Kate said. “That’s not what I’m referring to.”

“What, then?”

“You haven’t heard?” Kate’s voice cracked.

“If you’re not referring to Stenman, Muller, and the fire, then no.”

“Ellen Goodman.”

“Ellen?” His former girlfriend’s was the last name Peter expected to hear. “What about her?”

“Where were you tonight, Peter?”

“At Stenman’s. Starting a fire.”

“That isn’t funny. Where?”

“I told you. At Stenman Partners. Third floor. Howard Muller’s office.”

“Can you prove it?”

“I think so. The guards saw me. Muller, he . . .” Peter didn’t know quite how to explain. “What happened with Ellen?”

“Ellen’s been raped and murdered. Somebody tied her to a bed, spread-eagled, and tortured her. The police are looking for you.”

“Ellen’s dead?”

“Peter, they think you’re involved.”

“Me? No way. I haven’t seen Ellen since the day I left my job. Dead? Are you sure?”

“I’m positive, and several things have the police convinced you’re involved. Your moonstone was in her bedroom.”

“I haven’t seen that since it was stolen.”

“Did you call Ellen the other day?” Kate asked.

“Yes. She left me a message. I returned the call.”

“Do you still have the tape?”

“No.”

“We’ll have to check phone records. Did you give her a present?” Kate sounded like a prosecutor.

“No. Ellen thought I gave her a cat, but I didn’t.”

“The DA’s a family friend. He gave me some information. Said her cat’s a calico. Just like Henry. Is that a coincidence?”

“Kate, I’m sorry about Ellen—devastated, in fact—but I’m not involved.”

“The cat’s tag indicated that Ellen named him Peter. It seems natural to assume that she named him after you. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“I hope you’re not lying . . . I can’t help myself. I still care . . . You’re not bullshitting me, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Good, because there’s a lot more. Dark head-hair. Same color as yours on her sheets and pillowcase. A coffee cup in the kitchen. Your prints. A microwave—again, your prints on the door. Semen on the sheets. It looks real bad.”

“I’ve never been in Ellen’s apartment. She insisted on staying at my place so her other boyfriends, including our boss—Craig Hinton—wouldn’t find out.”

“Then we need the DNA results on the semen found on the sheets. They’ll show it wasn’t you. The rest of the stuff could’ve been planted— you’ve pissed off enough people to make that plausible. But in the meantime, you’ve got to turn yourself in. The labs are running a preliminary DNA test known as PCR. They expect results in two or three days.”

“PCR? What’s that?”

“It stands for Polymerase Chain Reaction. Forensics extracts the semen and vaginal samples from the sheets, grows DNA in the lab, then compares those to a sample of your DNA. Not as statistically significant as RFLP, but it should be good enough to get you off. The DA tells me he already got a sample of your DNA from a sealed envelope in your apartment.”

“An envelope?” Peter asked.

“They got a search warrant. He didn’t tell me what else they found, only that he was able to obtain a saliva sample from some outgoing mail you left behind.”

“How’d you get all this information?” Peter asked, in awe of Kate’s thoroughness.

“I told the DA I thought I could get you to turn yourself in if I knew what we were facing. He believes me. My credibility’s on the line.”

“Kate, it may be your credibility, but it’s my life. I need time.”

He then reviewed in detail the day’s events with her. “I’ve got what looks to be a coupla million in cash lying on my bed. Stacks of thousands, hundreds, and twenties. All worn. I’m sure untraceable.”

“Your alibi is that you robbed Stenman—” Kate said, her voice near shock “—either killed or maimed Stenman’s Chief Investment Officer, set the building on fire, then escaped in an ambulance? This isn’t helpful, Peter.”

“Can’t you do something? At least stall until I can meet with Agent Dawson.”

“I’ll negotiate with the DA, tell him we’re coming in. I’ll try and give you until four tomorrow afternoon. After that, I’m screwed. Can you live with that?”

“Yes. One last thing, Kate.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“I still need to meet with your father. Can you arrange that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why? He loves you more than life itself.”

“I confronted him. His responses convinced me he’s done some bad things. Then he sort of threw me out. And Peter?”

“Yes?”

“He said someone was killed. I think he meant your mother’s death wasn’t an accident.”

“I’ve arrived at the same conclusion after talking with Detective Ellis.”

“If he helps you, Father intimated that he’s liable to end up in serious legal trouble, or worse.”

“I’m sorry, Kate, but I need to talk to him. Will you ask? If nothing else, I want to understand the past—the history of our families.”

“Our lives
have
crisscrossed in a painful pattern. Lovers, friends, and enemies, all intertwined. I’ll try my best to set it up.”

“Thanks.”

“You aren’t leading me down a primrose path, are you, Peter?”

“You mean with Ellen?”

“Yeah. Ellen and everything else.”

“You have to believe me. I’m being straight with you. Stenman Partners isn’t the greatest alibi in the world, but no way my semen is on those sheets.”

“I believe you. I’ll work on Father and leave a message on Drew’s voice mail. You have a way to get hold of Dawson?”

“Drew’s got his number and is gonna phone him.”

“I’ll camp out in the District Attorney’s office,” Kate said. “By the time you’ve turned yourself in, they’ll have checked out your bizarre alibi. I should be able to get a reasonable bail.”

“Unless they want to nail me for what happened at Stenman’s,” Peter said.

“You said you were justified. Somebody’s going to have to do some heavy-duty explaining.”

“That’s true,” Peter said.

“You have any theories on how your moonstone made it to Ellen’s bedside table? Your prints on a cup and on her microwave?”

“Beats me,” Peter said, “unless Ellen, or maybe even Craig Hinton if he was jealous, had me robbed the day I moved out of my old place.”

“You think either of them engineered the theft?”

“Unlikely,” he said. “I’m grasping at straws.”

“I’ll follow up on Hinton, just in case. His relationship with Ellen and the fact that he disliked you makes him a natural suspect. You’ll meet me outside the courthouse, tomorrow at four?”

“Yeah. Four. How long before you get my release on bail?”

“Once we confirm things, a day, tops. You should plan to return Stenman’s money when you turn yourself in.”

“I took the money, hoping to trade it for answers. Under the circumstances, I’m happy to give it back.”

Once he re-cradled the phone, Peter flopped across his bed and clamped his eyes. He wished he were back at the old apartment, with its tiny bathtub, bathing with and making love to Kate Ayers. Instead, questions, one stacked on top of the other, weighed like a mountain.

Tomorrow . . . Peter looked at the bedside clock. The red digits flashed 1:04. “No, not tomorrow. It’s today already,” he told himself. “Will I find answers
today
?”

Especially to the questions about Ellen Goodman—they had been intimate, and that meant something. But who would rape her? Torture her? “Same person who murdered my mother,” he said, almost inaudibly.

The victims were innocent. The game was perverted. And Peter Neil was just beginning to learn how to play.

 
“I
WON
’
T SEE HIM
.”

It was Sunday morning and Kate had just informed her father of Peter’s request to meet.

“Peter needs your help,” she said. “So do I.”

“No. It’s too late for Peter. I told you this would end tragically if he persisted. Now he’s wanted for murder, and that cockamamie alibi of his isn’t going to hold.”

“He didn’t kill that woman. If you’d only—”

“For God’s sake, Kate, wake up to what’s happening. Stenman’s guards deny seeing Peter last night. According to arson investigators, a cigar, left burning, started the fire. Morgan denies the theft of any money. Howard Muller is vacationing in the south of Mexico as we speak. The ambulance drivers claim they drove somebody, but whoever it was forced them to stop. And they don’t recognize Peter as that person. Even if he was there— and I’m not saying he was—he still could have murdered the woman. The time of death may have been mid-afternoon. Even this Drew fellow told police he left Peter before two.”

“The initial DNA tests will be ready tomorrow or early the next day,” Kate said. “They’ll prove he’s innocent.”

“You’re not doing him any favors by pretending to be his attorney. You’re smart, but you have no experience. He needs a real lawyer.”

“He needs a . . . a friend. You can’t be this cold-blooded. Somebody murdered Hannah Neil. You as much as said so yesterday. Peter confirmed that with Ellis.”

“He went to see Detective Ellis? No wonder . . .”

“No wonder someone set him up?”

“I didn’t say that.” Ayers went to the cabinet near the sink. He reached for and retrieved a bottle of Jameson. He filled a six-ounce tumbler.

“It’s not even eight in the morning,” Kate said, her voice a knife’s edge. “You’re killing yourself, and rather than do something noble to ease your mind, you wallow, morning, noon, and night. Come on, Father. Did you love Hannah? What happened between you and Matthew Neil that caused best friends to quit being friends? Why do you turn your back on their only son? He needs your help.”