Mirror Image (20 page)
“At least we know where the second skewer is,” I said to Casey. “Forensics has the pair now. Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll find something.”
She eyed me doubtfully. “You mean ’cause we’ve been so lucky up till now?”
We were in my room at the Hyatt, naked under the bedsheets. According to the table clock, it was two in the afternoon. Casey was taking a long lunch.
“Biegler has a team checking all the up-scale retail outlets,” she said, “trying to get a lead on where the killer got the skewers. He might go back for another set. Unless he decides to be creative and switch to butcher knives.”
“He won’t,” I said. “It’s part of his communication with me. You don’t have to be an FBI profiler to figure that one out. Plus, I think he’s proud of the uniqueness of the murder weapon. That’s part of the message, too.”
Casey shivered involuntarily. “Jesus, it’s like you’re starting to know the guy.”
“Something tells me I already do.”
After finding the manikin in my car, I’d called Harry Polk and waited for him and the forensics team to show up. By this time, I knew the drill only too well. CSU towed my car back to impound to start the work-up, while I went with Polk back to the station.
“We got a pool goin’ at the office,” Polk said as we drove into the police lot. “Smart money says you’re gonna be dead by the weekend.”
“My tax dollars at work.”
He grinned. “At least you gotta hand it to the perp. That beard-and-glasses thing. Nice touch.”
We found Detective Lowrey waiting impatiently for us in Polk’s cramped cubicle. We filled her in on the details.
After which, I said, “I assume even Biegler’s smart enough to keep this second death threat from the media.”
Polk shrugged. “Long as we can, yeah.”
I got up to leave, and Lowrey got up with me. “Listen, I’m sorry about the jumper. Senator Ellner’s kid. From what I hear, you did everything you could.”
I had no answer to that. “By the way, anything new on the Brooks Riley murder?”
Polk smiled. “Funny you should ask. ’Course, you bein’ pals, you probably know this already. About Nancy Mendors.”
“What about her?”
“She and Riley were more than just colleagues. Turns out, they’ve been doin’ the nasty on the sly for months. Till loverboy broke it off a week ago.”
He turned to Lowrey. “What do ya think, partner? Sound like a motive to you?”
***
I got back to my room at the Hyatt and tried to call Nancy at the clinic. Nobody knew where she was. When I tried her place, I got her machine. And her cell was off.
I’d learned from Polk and Lowrey that they expected to bring her in for questioning soon. But Biegler wanted more artillery first: phone records, a warrant to search her place. All they had right now was clinic gossip that had emerged early on in the investigation of Riley’s death.
Nancy and Brooks Riley. I hadn’t seen that one coming.
Now, in retrospect, it made a kind of sense. Nancy was lonely, vulnerable. I could see her swept up into an affair with the clinic’s brash new head of psychiatry. Devastated when he ended it. But driven to murder…?
I began running the details through my head. The patient fight in the rec yard, which Nancy missed, claiming to have been in the rest room. The fact that she offered to go look for Riley later that day, when he didn’t show up for a meeting. Which was when
she
found the body.
I could see from the cops’ perspective how it all laid out. But did I believe it?
I had an image of Nancy’s drawn, sad face. Vivid memories of my own brief time with her. How we’d clung to each other, sustained each other.
Nancy deserved more than the law’s presumption of innocence. She deserved my support. And she’d get it.
I checked my messages. Sam Weiss. Angie. Harvey Blalock. Concerned, well-meaning calls. How was I holding up? Richie Ellner’s dramatic suicide had led the news.
I answered none of them. Instead, I stood under a scalding shower for fifteen minutes and fell, still wet, onto the bed.
Exhaustion. Escape. Who knows? But I slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
Until a pounding at my hotel room door woke me, and I got groggily to my feet. The table clock said noon.
“Danny, it’s me! Open up.” It was Casey.
I pulled on a robe and opened the door.
Before I could say a word, she’d thrown herself into my arms. Then her lips found mine, pressing into a deep, urgent kiss. I sank into it with my whole being.
Her lips moved to my ear. “Thank God,” she whispered. “Thank God you’re all right.”
Her tongue flicked my lobe. Though still half-asleep, I felt my erection. I let the robe fall open…
When, abruptly, she took a step back. Eyes brimming with anger, she stabbed my chest with her finger.
“What the hell’s
wrong
with you, Danny? It’s not enough somebody’s trying to kill you, you have to be a big hero and try to rescue some jumper. Christ!”
Then she turned on her heel and marched to the phone. With her back to me, she called out, “I’m going to order you up a decent meal, which I know you haven’t had sense enough to do for yourself, and then we’re gonna talk.”
“Casey—”
Only now did she turn back to me, eyes falling to my open robe. She smiled.
“And don’t worry, I’ll take care of that other thing, too. My motto: Feed ’em first, fuck ’em for dessert.”
Which she did.
It was now two-twenty, so when Casey stirred in my arms I figured she needed to get back to the office.
“Danny,” she said, “I want to run something by you.”
I nodded. Her voice held a rare hesitancy.
“Listen,” she said. “You know that by now we’ve run every background check in the world on you.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“So, we know about your family, friends. That riverfront bar you hang out at. And about Noah Frye.”
I leaned up now, so that we were both propped up on an elbow, facing each other. The hotel room seemed cooler.
“Casey, where’s this going?”
She frowned. “Hey, I know he’s your friend—maybe your best friend. He’s also schizophrenic. With a sheet. Vagrancy, drug busts, drunk and disorderly.”
“That was a long time ago. Besides…”
“Look at Kevin’s death. Brutal, savage. Like somebody out of his head. And damn personal.”
I kept my voice light. “You’re straying out of your field, counselor.”
“Yeah? What about the murder weapon turning up in your office…? That first warning.”
“I told you, Kevin had probably taken the key.”
“But what if you’re wrong? I got to thinking, maybe your friend Noah has a key. Does he?”
I debated answering. Finally: “I gave him one, some time back. But he lost it. Hell, he says he doesn’t even remember my giving it to him.”
“Unless he’s lying.”
“He’s not.”
“Then what about this second warning?…A fucking
manikin
? Finger-painted death threats? Sure looks like nutso behavior to me. Psychotic. Whatever.”
“Maybe that’s what it’s
supposed
to look like.”
She sighed heavily. “Danny, I’m worried about you. And I just don’t think we should rule anything out.”
“It isn’t Noah. He’d have no reason.”
“We’re not talking about
reason
. We’re talking about
crazy
, which your friend officially is.”
“I can’t believe you’re serious about this.”
“Okay, then. So where is he?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Noah isn’t at work, or at home. His girlfriend hasn’t seen him since early last night.”
“How would you know that?”
“I asked her. I called her at the bar this morning, and again right before I got here. She told me Noah’s been acting pretty weird lately, and she’s worried.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” I said firmly. “We’ve gotta find him. For
his
sake.”
I started climbing out of the bed, but Casey stopped me. She drew herself closer, face softening.
“I hate it when I piss you off.” She kissed my shoulder, my upper arm. Lips warm, insistent.
I smiled down at her. “I’ll get over it.”
She leaned up then, full breasts grazing my chest. “Don’t. I’m counting on some make-up sex.”
Before I could say anything, my cell phone rang. I gave her a quick look. She nodded. I picked it up.
“Dr. Rinaldi? This is Leland Sinclair.”
Casey was close enough to hear his voice on the phone. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she quickly sat up.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you have my private cell number,” I said to Sinclair.
“I guess you shouldn’t,” he said. “I’ll be brief. I need you to come here to my office in one hour. And please tell Ms. Walters I’ll want her here, too.”
I saw the color drain from Casey’s face. Then she crossed her arms across her breasts as though angry. But I could tell this had shaken her.
Sinclair must have read something in my long pause, because he went on, dryly, “Yes, I know where she is, Danny. I assume it’s okay if I call you that? You can call me Lee. No need for the three of us to stand on ceremony.”
My own voice tightened. “What do you want?”
“We just received a message from a woman who claimed she was calling from a phone booth out of state, and would call back in exactly one hour. She says she has information about the Kevin Wingfield case, but will only talk to you. I want you down here, where we can monitor the call. And try to trace it.”
“Who is she?”
A pause. “Karen Wingfield. Kevin’s sister.”
From my seat in the District Attorney’s ornate corner office, I could see the profile of a grinning gargoyle just outside the window. Still dripping from the recent rains.
I was on a headset, next to a plainclothes tech operating some sleek digital equipment. The call from Karen Wingfield was due any moment, and was going to be patched from the main switchboard to Sinclair’s office, as well as to a police communications lab three blocks away.
“Remember,” said Lt. Biegler, sitting across the room between Sinclair and Casey, “we’ll need some time to make the trace. So mostly just listen and keep her talking.”
“Sure. I think I have some experience with that.”
Biegler scowled and folded his arms.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t help noticing Casey’s discomfort. She’d been avoiding Sinclair’s eyes since we got here. Despite her obvious distaste for Biegler, she seemed glad to have him seated between her and Sinclair.
For his part, the DA was as reserved as ever, with only his clipped voice betraying any subterranean tension. Whether it was anxiety about the possibility of a break in the case, or suppressed anger about Casey and me, I didn’t know. And at the moment, didn’t care.
The tech glanced up from his watch. “She’s late.”
Instinctively, we all looked at the phone.
Two minutes went by. Three.
Biegler stirred. “Look, maybe she—”
Suddenly the phone rang and everybody jumped. The tech gave me a silent two-second count, then nodded.
I picked up the phone. “Hello.”
“Dr. Rinaldi?”
The voice on the other end was thick, harsh. Made more so as it echoed in the room from a small speaker at the tech’s console. “This better be you,” she said.
“It is. The police told me you wanted to talk to me.”
Sinclair, Biegler, and Casey were all leaning forward in their seats, the lieutenant’s smooth hands gripping his knees so tightly the knuckles were whitening.
“Where are you calling from, Ms. Wingfield?”
“Like I’m gonna tell you. And you can cut the ‘Ms. Wingfield’ shit. I hate that name. I don’t use that name.”
Her voice was slurred, though she was attempting to keep it clipped, under control. So it came out belligerent. No question she’d been drinking or was stoned. Probably to get her courage up for the call.
“What name are you using nowadays? Your husband’s?”
“My
ex
-husband, the prick. And I wouldn’t use
Billy’s
name if you paid me. And don’t try to keep me talkin’ so you can trace the call. I’m smarter than that.”
I made a judgment call, and sharpened my tone. To get through the substance fog and the fear.
“You called
me,
Karen. If you have something to tell me about Kevin, then tell me. If not, stop wasting my time. All we want is to find his killer. What do
you
want?”
“Shee-it.” Her laugh was raspy, turning into a cough.
I could hear every year of the hard life she’d led since running away from Banford as a teenager.
“I’ll tell you somethin’, Doc, you sure don’t sound like the shrinks I seen on
Oprah.
I thought you guys were supposed to be nice. To care about people.”
“I cared about Kevin. A lot.”
A long pause on the line.
“You still there, Karen?” I ventured.
“Yeah. The thing is, seein’ my father’s lawyers on TV, sayin’ how he’s all devastated and everything. I just—I couldn’t fuckin’ stand it. It’s all bullshit.”
She sniffed, coughed again. “And I only wanted to talk to
you
’cause I figured you’d understand. You probably knew Kevin better than anyone else in his life, and sure as hell care more about what happened to him than the fuckin’ cops.
Or
the sick bastard that raised us.” Another pause. “You know about all that, right? All that abuse shit?”
I answered carefully. “Kevin told me about you and him. But there’s no blame. Even though you were the older, you were both minors. Given the—”
Her laugh popped from my earpiece and the room speaker like the snap of static. Casey sat back, blinking.
“No blame?” Karen’s voice was reproachful. “Didn’t Kevin tell you what happened? What our father
did
?”
I hesitated. “I guess I don’t know it all. We hadn’t gotten that far into—”
“It was my
father
.
He
was the abuser.”
Again a long pause, as though gathering strength. Voice raw. “Fuck, I’m not gonna get through this…”
Casey sat up then, looking concerned. Biegler made a big show of rolling his eyes. I ignored them both.
“Take your time, Karen,” I said. I glanced at the tech. He shook his head. No trace yet.
Karen took a breath, then launched into her speech. “I’m only gonna tell you this once. You can use it any way you want. Kevin and me…we were like the actors in a play, and our father was the director. I mean, we were all part of it together. Kevin would be in bed with me…”
“How did he get in bed with you?”
“Don’t interrupt, goddam it! I can’t—” Voice choked, thick with tears, or booze. “I was gettin’ to that…”
Another long pause. “Sometimes Daddy would carry Kevin into my room. He’d be asleep, and wake up to find himself under the covers with me. Daddy used to make me take off my clothes and be waitin’ naked for him and Kev. Then, he’d put us together…See, Daddy liked to be there with us, putting my mouth on Kevin’s thing, or pushing Kev’s mouth down on my—you know, down there—and takin’ our hands and placin’ ’em where he wanted. I would be cryin’ and feelin’ like shit, like a whore from hell ’cause Daddy said this was what I always wanted to do with Kevin, and that he was only tryin’ to make me happy, and that if me and Kev were happy then he didn’t miss Momma so much. That filthy pervert bastard used to make us hump till we came, or else make me give my sweet little Kevin head till he popped, and sometimes I’d look over and see Daddy’s big hairy cock hard as a flagpole, pokin’ through the sheets, and him sayin’, “You’re makin’ your Daddy so happy, your Daddy that misses Momma so much.” And then he’d come all over us, and I remember how sticky and wet and hot it was, and how it made me want to throw up, which I did sometimes. But mostly I remember Kevin’s face—how white, how blank, like his soul was gone already, up in heaven with Momma…”
Then, abruptly, silence.
I glanced up, to find the other people in the room frozen in their seats. Casey’s hand was over her mouth.
Then I felt the tech tapping my arm. They had the trace. He glanced back at Biegler.
“Karen…?” I said quietly.
“Yeah.” Distracted. Spent. “You know the funny thing? After he got rich and famous, Daddy tried to contact me.”
“How?”
“One day some private eye finds me—I was livin’ in some shit-hole in Utah, and pregnant—anyway, he says my father wants to see me again, make everything okay between us. Promised me tons of money…”
A sharp, bitter laugh. “So I kicked the guy out and moved away the next day. Never even told my husband about it. Just told him the law was after me and we hadda disappear. Billy had a good job for once, so he was kinda pissed off. He beat me up pretty bad—I mean, worse than usual, I almost lost the baby—but we ended up leavin’.”
Another hacking cough. “I know what you’re thinkin’. Why not cash in, after what my father done to me? I sure coulda used the dough. Well, I say fuck him,
and
fuck his money. That’d just make me his whore again.”
“What about Kevin?” I said softly. “Have you seen him at all since you were kids?”
“Nope. And I knew I wouldn’t. In fact, the PI told me Daddy was lookin’ for Kevin, too. But I knew Kev would spit in his eye, like me. I guess he did, eh? On the news, they said he was poor and livin’ under a fake name…”
Her voice trailed off. “Fuck, I need a drink…”
“Karen.” I sharpened my tone again. “Why did you call us? Why tell us this now, after all these years?”
“’Cause Kevin’s dead,” she answered coolly. “And I’m gettin’ out. For good.”
Biegler and Sinclair exchanged looks.
“Wait.” I hurried. “Tell me where you are. If you’re in some kind of trouble, we can help you.”
“Trouble? You mean, ’cause my crazy scum-bag ex is after me, tryin’ to get my little boy…”
“Your child is with you?”
“Asleep in the flatbed, next to me. I gotta skip town fast. Billy’s right on my ass. And I can’t let him have Davey. Not after he—shit, I sure can
pick
’em…”
“Karen, listen…”
I looked up to see Biegler and the tech guy huddled in a far corner, whispering urgently. Then the tech guy raced out of the office.
“Anyway,” Karen went on, “I figure you fucks got this phone number by now, so I gotta blow. Hell, I won’t even be in the country in another twelve hours. So
you
listen. Find out who killed Kevin, if that’s what you want. But it don’t matter. Daddy killed him a long time ago. Me, too.”
“There’s got to be something we can do for you.”
“You can arrest my bigshot Daddy for bein’ a fucking child-molesting perv, is what you can do.”
What I said next made Sinclair and Casey stare at me in alarm, but I had to tell this poor woman the truth.
“Karen, there’s nothing I’d like better than to make your father pay for what he did, but the law can’t touch him. It happened too long ago. The statute of limitations on sexual abuse ran out already, at least in your case.”
A long, withering silence. “Shit, I shoulda known he’d get away with it. And the pisser is, he’s still doin’ it.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“People he got workin’ for him. You can get their bios off the Internet…” Again, that bitter, slurred laugh. “Yeah, Doc, even here in trailer-trash central, we know how to get online…”
“People who work for him…?”
“The execs, the people close to him. You don’t think they got to make him happy? Play his little puppet-master games? Go ask—what’s their names? I wrote ’em down…”
I heard a flutter of paper on the other end of the line.
“Here,” she said. “Peter and Sheila Clarkson. Bet
they
got a story.”
It took me a moment to register the names. The young man and woman I’d met in Wingfield’s hotel suite.
“You mean—”
“Get a clue, will ya, Doc? They’re brother and sister.”
Then she hung up.
