No Place to Die (22 page)

“Of course, what the warden didn’t realize is that seventy-five percent of good cooking is shopping. And as long as we were getting lousy raw ingredients, the end result wasn’t all that much better. But at least some of us who enrolled in the program learned a few basic principles.”

Beverly swallowed some potatoes. “I hope you don’t think I’m saying this just to humor you, Carl, but you do seem to have a real knack for this. Obviously you must have inherited a considerable amount of your mother’s natural talent. Once you learned you were going to be freed, didn’t you ever think about the prospect of trying to find a job in a restaurant somewhere and creating a new life for yourself?”

McClain took a sip of wine and looked over the top of his glass to meet her eyes. “Easier said than done, Beverly,” he sighed. “And as I said, I had other plans.”

He hesitated for a moment, toying with the wineglass. “Perhaps after what I’ve put you through over the last week or so, you can begin to get some small, tiny glimmer of understanding of what I went through in prison. Imagine this last week stretching out for the next sixteen years and thirty-three weeks. As angry as you are right now, imagine the rage you’d feel at the end of that time.

“You think you’re an innocent woman. You think that you don’t remotely begin to deserve what’s happened to you here. Some sick bastard’s murdered your husband, kidnapped you, and has forced you to have sex with him repeatedly. You probably figure that you’re going to die here in this room.

“Well, goddammit,” he said, warming to the topic, “that’s exactly how I felt.
I
was an innocent man, Beverly. The system sent me to prison for something I didn’t do. I lost my wife, and although she didn’t physically die, she was sure as hell dead to me. She gave up on me the second I was arrested, and I haven’t heard a word from her since. And yeah, she probably had some cause to do it, but in spite of the way I behaved, I loved her.”

He hesitated for a long moment, staring at the floor. Then, still without looking up at Beverly, he said, “She took my daughter away from me and she killed my baby…She was pregnant when I was arrested, and she got an abortion…For some reason, I always think of it as a boy. He’d be sixteen now, and I used to lie awake nights thinking about the things we might have done together, playing ball, going to the games, all that sort of father-and-son shit…

“As for the rest of it…well…you knew me when, Beverly. I went into the pen a fat, pudgy boy who had no idea how to fend for himself in the system. I was new meat, and it wasn’t pretty.”

Again he paused, pushing a couple of green beans around on his plate. Finally he looked up at her, his eyes harder now. “So like I say, Beverly, imagine the prospect of spending the rest of your life in here—in this room, with me. Then imagine that one day after seventeen years have passed, I walk in and say, ‘Jesus, Beverly, I’m really sorry. I made a terrible mistake, and I’m letting you go…’ You’re telling me you could just shake hands and walk away—forgive and forget? Let bygones be bygones, and all that shit?”

“No, of course not,” she said, tearing up. “And I truly am sorry for what you went through. And whether you believe it or not, I’m especially sorry that I didn’t do a better job for you. You didn’t deserve what happened to you, and I can only say again that I tried as hard as I could for you.”

Looking up to meet his eyes, she said, “But there is a fundamental difference in our situations, Carl. You
know
that I’m an innocent person, as were the judge, the prosecuting attorney and the jurors who combined to send you to prison. You
know
that while we participated in what ultimately proved to be a gross miscarriage of justice, we did not do so deliberately. We were all doing the best that we could.

“I will tell you honestly that at the time of the trial I didn’t know whether you were innocent or not. I
hoped
that you were, but irrespective of that, I believed that like anyone else accused of a crime, you had a constitutional right to the best representation you could get. And whether you believe it or not, that’s what I honestly tried to give you.

“As for the others—the prosecutor, the judge, and the jurors—they had no way of knowing whether you were innocent or not. They could only go where the evidence led them. And in fairness, certainly, you have to concede that there was a considerable amount of evidence against you. If they had known absolutely that you were innocent, as you know that they were—if they’d even had a reasonable doubt—then they would have never condemned you to that hell.”

A long moment passed. Then, still toying with his wine glass, McClain offered her a remorseful smile. “You know, Beverly,” he said sadly, “you’re a much better lawyer today than you were seventeen years ago. If I’d of had a lawyer that good back then, I doubt very much that we’d be sitting here having this conversation tonight.”

Leaving Doyle still lying on the floor behind me, I left the building immediately, pausing only long enough to grab my suit coat from my office and lock the door.

I knew that I was going to be in deep shit for punching out Doyle—almost certainly I was facing a suspension and disciplinary action. I deeply regretted the former, and could only hope that whatever punishment I’d face would at least be delayed until after the McClain case was resolved. But I did not for a moment regret reacting as I had in response to Doyle’s crude remark. The bastard had gotten exactly what he deserved, and no matter the consequences, I’d never apologize for giving it to him.

I sat in my car for a couple of minutes, taking deep breaths in an effort to get my emotions back under control. Then I started the car and drove over to the florist’s shop, arriving only minutes before they closed. I’d placed an order for a dozen yellow roses, and the shop had created a beautiful arrangement. I paid the bill gratefully and continued on to the nursing home.

Given the holiday, the place was a bit more active than it usually was at this time of night. I nodded at a couple of familiar faces, went through the doors and on up to the second floor. The receptionist on duty smiled with a hint of sadness and said, “That’s a very nice arrangement, Detective.”

I thanked her and continued on down the hall to Julie’s room. Someone had left the overhead lights on and the room was almost painfully bright. Julie lay on
the bed, dressed in a long blue gown, covered only by a thin white sheet that was folded back just above her waist. As they did every day, one of the nurses had carefully brushed Julie’s hair, which was parted in the middle and arranged down over her shoulders, framing her face.

In this light, I was always struck by how pale she’d become. Julie had always been very active and had spent a great deal of time outdoors, running, hiking, and golfing. Although she used sunscreen religiously, for as long as I had known her she’d always had a fairly deep tan. But in the months since the accident, her tan had gradually faded and had given way to the complexion I now imagined that she’d possessed as a young girl in Minnesota.

I turned off the overhead lights and set the roses on the dresser at the foot of the bed. I kissed Julie’s cheek, quietly wished her a happy Valentine’s Day, and then settled into the chair next to the bed. I sat there for the next hour, softly stroking Julie’s hand and thinking about the holidays we’d spent together in happier times.

I was lost in my reverie when the overhead light suddenly snapped on again. I turned, blinking my eyes against the harsh light, and saw my mother-in-law standing in the doorway, conservatively dressed and meticulously made up as always, with a floral arrangement of her own—carnations again.

“I didn’t see your car in the lot,” she said in the tone of voice she seemed to reserve exclusively for me. “I didn’t know if you were coming up today or not.”

I gently laid Julie’s hand back on the bed, dropped my head into my hands, and massaged my eyes. Then I turned back to Elizabeth and said, “You didn’t know if I was coming up today or not? Jesus Christ, Elizabeth, I’ve been here at some point every day for the last eighteen months. Why in the hell would you think that I would ever miss a day—especially this day?”

“Well, I know that you’re very busy with your investigations and all. I have no idea what your schedule is like these days.”

“Elizabeth, you know damn good and well that no matter how full my schedule might be, it would never prevent me from being here.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” she replied stiffly. “I only know that if you had your way, you wouldn’t have to come here at all.”

Several months ago, when she’d first made a remark of that sort, I’d come very close to punching her lights out. But I realized that as satisfying as it might have been to do so on some primitive level, it would have solved nothing. And I also realized that there was no point in rising to her bait. I stood from the chair and said, “Elizabeth, you’re welcome to your pathetic delusions, but I refuse to fight with you in front of Julie.”

I turned back to the bed, kissed Julie’s cheek, then straightened and turned to leave. But Elizabeth stood in the door, effectively blocking my path. “I’d prefer not to have to fight with you in front of my daughter either,” she said. “And on that note, I have something that I wanted to discuss with you—something that I’ve been thinking about for the last several weeks.”

“And what would that be?”

She paused for a long moment and then steeled her eyes on mine. “I’d like to move Julie to a facility back home in Minnesota.”

I was thunderstruck. As audacious and combative as the woman had been in the last eighteen months, nothing that she’d done or said could possibly have prepared me for this. Shaking my head, I returned her stare and said, “Elizabeth, I’ll say this very slowly and clearly, so that even you can understand it. No. Fucking. Way.”

She sighed impatiently and shook her head. “Honestly, Sean, you surprise me.”

Gesturing toward the machine that was “feeding” Julie, she said, “You’re so anxious to end all of this that I would think you’d welcome the idea. The responsibility would be lifted from your shoulders. You wouldn’t have to feel obligated to come in here every day, and Julie would receive much better care at home than she could ever get here.”

“Elizabeth, you are so full of crap that I don’t even know how to begin to reply. You know perfectly well that the only reason I want to ‘end all of this’ is because that’s what Julie would have wanted. And if you’d spent any time at all with your daughter in the last five years, you would also understand that. As hard as it might be, I am determined to honor her wishes. And if you were any kind of a mother, you’d drop this stupid lawsuit, which you know you’ll never win, and honor her wishes as well.

“Even so, if I thought for a moment that there was even the smallest chance that Julie would be better cared for in Minnesota—or anywhere else, for that matter—I would move her there in a heartbeat. But that is not the case and I won’t even consider the idea, let alone consent to it.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. “Well, Sean, I’m sorry you feel that way, but you may not have a choice in the matter.”

Struggling to maintain control, I took a deep breath and said, “I have every choice in the matter, Elizabeth. No matter how much you might hate the idea, I am still Julie’s husband, and no court in Arizona will ever allow you to move her without my consent.”

“Perhaps not,” she admitted. “But how long will you be able to afford to keep Julie in this facility if her family withdraws its financial support? And when you can’t afford to do so, where will she go—to a ward in some county facility, where she’ll be tended—or more likely, largely ignored—by a staff that’s barely trained,
underpaid, and completely unmotivated? Is that where you want to see her end up?”

“Look, Elizabeth,” I sighed. “As I’ve said repeatedly, in spite of all our other differences, I am truly grateful for the assistance that you and John have provided in that regard. That said, none of this would be necessary if you had not ignored Julie’s clearly expressed wishes about living under these conditions. Beyond that, I have to say that I honestly cannot believe that a woman who is as devoted as you are to her social standing would ever allow her daughter to languish in circumstances like the ones you’ve just described. Christ, what would all the society matrons back in Minneapolis ever think about you if you did?

“However, if you wish to withdraw your financial support, so be it. I’ll sell the house. I’ll borrow money. I’ll do
whatever
it takes to see that Julie is cared for in circumstances that are as dignified and as comfortable as possible until the courts finish stuffing this ridiculous lawsuit up your tight, bony ass and Julie can finally rest in peace.”

Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open and she struggled to formulate a response. But before she could, I stepped around her and left the room without another word.

It was seven minutes after midnight when Natasha Williamson stepped into the elevator on the third floor of the Hayden Memorial Hospital. Natasha hated working the three-to-eleven-o’clock shift, and she hated it even more when she had to put in an extra
hour of overtime because the nurse who was supposed to relieve her showed up late for the second time in the last two weeks.

The woman always had an excuse at the ready—her babysitter didn’t get there on time, her car wouldn’t start, or some other damned thing. But Natasha was fairly certain that the attractive young woman had more than likely just been an hour late getting out of some brother’s bed again.

Natasha hadn’t been decently laid herself in longer than she cared to remember. And even the fact that she got time and a half for working the overtime wasn’t compensation enough to offset the fact that she had to spend an extra hour on her tired, aching feet so that some horny little girl could spend an extra hour on her back somewhere.

Natasha leaned heavily against the side wall of the elevator and pushed
P
. The doors were nearly closed when a man stuck his hand in between them, tripping the sensor and forcing the doors to open again. He slipped into the elevator, gave Natasha a slight smile, and said, “Thanks.”

The man was around six feet tall and fairly well muscled, wearing jeans, running shoes, and a navy blue T-shirt. He settled against the back wall of the elevator and made no move toward the control panel, simply watching as Natasha pressed
P
for the second time.

The elevator doors closed with a soft hiss, and Natasha turned to face the front of the car. Keenly aware of the man’s presence behind her, she watched the indicator above the doors as the elevator dropped slowly from the third floor down through the second and then through the first before settling to a stop in the parking garage in the basement of the building.

Natasha stepped out of the elevator, clutching her purse in front of her. The man waited a couple of seconds
and then stepped off behind her. The elevator doors hissed closed again, and the two of them were alone in the half-empty garage.

The floor of the garage was littered with fast food bags, coffee cups, cigarette butts, and other assorted debris that people apparently couldn’t hang on to long enough to deposit in the trash can near the elevator doors, and the low ceiling and the dim yellow lights made the subterranean structure feel decidedly claustrophobic. Quickening her pace a bit, Natasha turned left toward the employees’ parking area, where she’d left her battered Ford. Over her shoulder, she saw the man turn to follow her.

Her heart racing, Natasha looked left and right, trying to appear casual about it, but she couldn’t see anyone else in the garage. A hundred feet ahead of her, the security guard’s post stood dark and empty, another casualty of the hospital’s ongoing budget crisis.

Seventeen years ago, when Natasha was called for jury duty, she’d been a twenty-four-year-old welfare mother with no legitimate excuse for failing to report. Fearful that she might lose her benefits if she didn’t show up, she’d spent two days sitting in the jury pool at the courthouse before being selected to serve in the murder trial of Carl McClain.

Natasha had never seen a dead person before, except for going to her grandma’s funeral, and the crime-scene photos of Gloria Kelly, the clothesline still tight around her throat, her eyes bugging out, and her face contorted in horror, had made Natasha physically ill. She’d had no problem whatsoever voting to convict McClain, and for years after the trial, the face of that poor dead woman had haunted her sleep.

All of that was behind her now, or so she’d thought until detectives Riggins and Doyle had interrupted her in the middle of her shift on Tuesday. They’d shown her a photo and some artist’s sketches and warned her
to be careful. And now, barely twenty-four hours later, a man looking a lot like the one in the sketches was matching her pace, step for step, through the empty parking garage.

On the street above the garage, a vehicle squealed by. Natasha begged God that a car would drive down the ramp ahead of her or that someone else would appear from the bank of elevators behind her. Thirty-five feet away from her car and still holding the large purse in front of her body, she opened the purse and began fumbling for her keys.

Twenty feet short of the Ford, she chanced a look over her shoulder and saw that the man was moving faster now, closing the distance between them. Her heart racing, she found the keys and broke into a trot. From behind her, she heard the man say, “Excuse me, ma’am?”

Panicked, Natasha dropped the keys back into the bottom of the purse and wrapped her hand around the grip of the small .22-caliber revolver that she carried because it made her feel safer when she had to drive home alone at this hour of the night. Her hand shaking, she somehow managed to cock the gun and draw it out of the purse.

The man was less than five feet behind her when Natasha turned and shot him twice in the abdomen.