Twisted Justice (13 page)

“Man, you're not kidding about not wanting Steve to know.”

“No, I'm not.” Her eyes locked onto Greg's. “If Steve persists with not paying the bail, you can get the file key tomorrow from my secretary.”

“So we'll use that as a backup. I'll also need the key to your box at the bank. Power of attorney —”

“The key to the box is in the file.”

“You'll need to sign the paperwork to get this going.”

“As long as there's no hint to Steve as to how I got the money. Just get him to come see me first thing tomorrow. And reassure my parents that financially I'm okay, will you please?”

“Of course,” Greg replied. There was a lot to be done. First, he needed to call his fiancée, Celeste. It was already too late to join her for dinner. He'd be lucky to get to her place by midnight and she was leaving for a big job in Atlanta in the morning.

“And Greg, now that I can pay you, help me, will you?”

Greg looked back at Laura, her clear eyes clouding over. “I'm trying to. I'd intended to juggle my accounts to cover your bail. Now, though, I'm realizing that if you're willing to use this money, we can even afford a top-notch private investigator.”

“A private investigator?”

“His name's Chuck Dimer, and he's the best in South Florida. I'll call him tonight. As soon as we get you out of here, I'll introduce you to the whole legal team. There's lots to be done.”

“All I want is my life back.”

“I know. That's why we'll be digging into everything. Police reports. Autopsy results. Fingerprints. The victim's background. Like I said, Chuck is the best.”

Laura gazed at the matron, who was now standing outside the door. “You do whatever you need to do. Just get me out of here tomorrow.”

Greg nodded and Laura forced a glimmer of a smile as she was led away to her cell.

Heading for the bank of phones at the end of the hall, he planned first to call Celeste, next Laura's secretary at her home to arrange meeting her at the Medical Arts Building, and then Chuck to set up a meeting for first thing tomorrow. As he waited for Celeste to pick up the phone, his thoughts were still on Laura. Why had she hidden the existence of that money from him, and why was she hiding it from her husband? As Celeste answered, Greg wondered whether, when they were married, they would have such secrets between them.

Steve was still groggy when he awoke the next morning. He'd tossed and turned until three o'clock, his mind everywhere. Why the hell had Kim shown up at his apartment that night anyway? He never got to find out whether she was really leaving that Santiago clown and coming to him or maybe just coming to say good-bye. And the gun. The cops told him that Laura's fingerprints were on that gun. Laura hated guns.

She'd carried a thirty-eight once, at his insistence back in Detroit. But once they'd moved to Tampa, Laura admitted that she'd dropped the gun into the Detroit River the night she'd gone to her med school graduation party on one of those party boats. Had she lied about that? Steve grimaced at the memory. He'd been too busy getting the family ready to move and she'd gone to the party alone. When she finally told him that she'd gotten rid of a perfectly good, if unregistered, gun, he'd exploded in anger. Laura had cried and when he couldn't stand the tears anymore, Steve promised to forgive her. And that was the last he'd heard about that gun. But that gun had been a Smith and Wesson and the one at Kim's place was a Colt. Traceable? The cops didn't know yet. And Laura did have a motive, didn't she? Wouldn't everybody feel sorry for her? Kim — the other woman — had completely disrupted their life. And he had — what about what he had done?

Too much. It was all too much.

Finally, Steve decided to take a sleeping pill, one of those Seconals Laura kept around for the times she worked all night and had
to get some sleep during the day in a noisy household. As he was lulled to sleep by the barbiturate, he struggled to come up with a plan. He would confront Laura directly, in jail, first thing in the morning. He would bail her out. That was the least everyone would expect, he decided.

The house seemed eerily quiet as Steve showered and dressed in neatly pressed tan slacks, a buff Oxford shirt, and a maroon sports jacket. Heading downstairs to the kitchen, he was surprised to find Peg and Carl Whelan there, grief etched on their faces. Get ready, he told himself, they're going to try to blame me for this whole mess.

But Peg got up from her chair at the kitchen table and hugged him. “We didn't know whether or not we should wake you,” she said. “It's after nine.”

“Trouble sleeping,” Steve mumbled.

“How you doing, Steve?” said Carl. He rose and clamped an arm around Steve's shoulder. Honest and kind, Carl had retired twelve years earlier from the Fisher Body car plant in Grand Rapids, Michigan, when Laura was still in med school. He and Peg moved to Florida where baseball, gardening, and golf kept him busy while Peg taught first grade in the Manatee County Public School system until her recent retirement.

“All right I guess. This is all so terrible,” Steve said, glancing down at the table. He saw the headline in the
Tampa Tribune:
R
ENOWNED
T
AMPA
S
URGEON
S
USPECT IN
C
ELEBRITY
M
URDER
.

He picked up the paper and read: “Dr. Laura Nelson, wife of Steve Nelson, former coanchor of Channel Eight News at Eleven, pleads not guilty to charges of the first-degree murder of Kim Connor, her husband's former coanchor.” The article followed with the story of Steve leaving the station and Kim's plan to move to Atlanta. It quoted a Tampa City Hospital spokeswoman saying that Laura was a successful surgeon with no prior criminal record. It ended with speculation of a love triangle. Photos of all three lined the right column of the third page. At the top, a casual shot of Laura, looking a little chubby and smiling brightly in a white lab coat, a stethoscope dangling around her neck. Next, a full-body shot of Kim, microphone in hand, looking professional yet alluring in a dark suit with a short skirt and a low cut V-neck blouse. At the bottom was Steve, a studio shot of him at a podium, well made-up, a serious expression.

Steve dropped the paper on the table, shaking his head. So the whole world would know about him and Kim. His clean-cut reputation was shot to hell, but so what? He'd already been fired. Then he sank into a chair and held his head as a momentary flash of panic seized him. What about Santiago? Kim's words, “insanely jealous” pounded in his head. Laura had blabbed to the cops about Kim. Nothing he could do about that. Santiago would see the paper. He would — my God, would that mobster come after him?

“Steve, are you sure you're okay?” Carl asked again.

“Yeah, just thinking.” Steve massaged his temples.

“What are we going to do? We feel so helpless.” Peg wrung her hands. “We got a call from her lawyer yesterday. We have to get her out of that jail.”

Steve slumped farther down into his chair. “I'm going down there after breakfast. Do you know anything specific about what happened? Did she say anything to you?”

“We haven't talked to her since —” Carl answered quietly, indicating the newspaper. “She'd already told us about you and Kim Connor.”

“And that she wants a permanent separation,” Peg added.

“It's true that Laura and I had separated,” Steve said slowly. “Even though it was her decision, she must have been, well, having second thoughts.”

“I don't know what you're trying to say. She made it perfectly clear,” said Carl. “But that's not so important now. What is important is to get her out of that jail and home to us and the children.”

“Listen, I haven't even talked to her yet,” Steve cut in. “I got back late last night after being questioned nonstop by the police for hours. This is all quite a shock.”

“Of course it is. What can we do, Steve?” Carl asked.

“I'm not sure.”

“Mr. Klingman already called this morning,” Peg offered. “He wants you to call him right away. Said you could see Laura this morning. We asked if we could see her and he said no, not this morning, but that he'd have her home this afternoon.”

“Of course I'll call him,” said Steve. “Where are the kids?”

“Marcy took them to Lowry Park,” Peg said. “She'll keep them out as long as possible to give us time to work all this out.”

“We decided it was best — before they saw the morning paper,” Carl said.

“They looked scared, Steve,” Peg added. “What will you tell them?”

“I … I don't know, Peg, but I'll figure it out. First thing is, from now on, I don't want them going out anywhere without me anymore.”

The Whelans exchanged looks as Steve got up and poured himself a bowl of cornflakes and some coffee. Carl reached for the paper and Peg began washing dishes.

“I'll call that lawyer now,” Steve said when he was done. “I wonder if he's the right one for Laura. Based on yesterday, the guy's pretty cocky, pretty aggressive.”

“In this case, aggressive is good,” Carl said.

“We'll see,” countered Steve as he headed upstairs, went into the bedroom, and shut the door.

“Mr. Klingman,” Steve said as Greg picked up the phone, “this is Steve Nelson. I'm calling about my wife. I want to get her out of jail. I don't want her to spend another minute in there.”

“Good, Mr. Nelson,” Greg replied. “There's a lot to discuss. It's important that I meet with you as soon as possible.”

“Of course. Channel Eight is coming over for an interview at noon.”

“Interview, Mr. Nelson?” Greg stifled a gasp. “I already told you I don't think it's wise. At least wait until you've had a chance to
meet with Laura. She needs to see you. Can you come down right now?”

“And I need to see her. It's just things are so strange — surreal — right now. Did you see today's paper?”

“Mr. Nelson, you really need to talk to your wife before you talk to anyone.”

“You're right, of course I do.” Steve cleared his throat. “I need to hear her side of the story.”

Steve had decided as he'd showered that he should know exactly what had happened when Laura went to his apartment rather than risk coming off badly on TV. Not that he had anything to loose. His ass was already fired. Now that Laura had blabbed about his relationship with Kim, it wasn't likely that he'd be getting a job in the Tampa Bay area. If she'd have just kept her mouth shut. Then Steve felt his body heat up under the warm water and he reached to adjust the temperature to cool. As he stepped out of the shower and toweled off, he couldn't seem to cool down. A sheen of sweat persisted on his forehead despite the chill of the air conditioner. A gnawing sensation made him stop and stare in the mirror. And then he realized the source of this queasy anxiety: the world now knew about him and Kim. And that included her scary boyfriend. Yes, he must proceed with this interview so he could get the best spin on the story, one that would best protect him and Laura.

When he went back downstairs, Peg and Carl looked up expectantly from their seats at the kitchen table.

“I'm going down to see Laura now,” he stated.

“About bail,” Carl asked, “do you have the money, Steve, or should we raise it?”

“Don't worry, I'll handle it.”

Steve let the door slam behind him.

Greg met Steve just past the guard station inside the dismal receiving alcove of the Hillsborough County Jail. After a perfunctory handshake, Greg began, “Mr. Nelson, I need you to help me help your wife beat this murder charge.”

Steve nodded. “That's why I'm here. My thought is, won't Laura be better off just telling the cops what happened? That she found Kim and I together and that led to, well, a crime of passion. It happens all the time, doesn't it? Not cold-blooded murder, just an irrational jealous rage – not premeditated. Won't they let her off easy? Probation? Community service?”

Greg recoiled. “Mr. Nelson, are you saying you believe your wife killed Kim Connor? She said she didn't do it.”

“Honestly, I don't know what to think.” Steve's words came rapidly. “I can't imagine Laura killing anybody, but, I mean, what about the gun being right there?”

“How would your wife get a gun?” Greg asked.

“I can't honestly say. They say it was a Colt thirty-eight. I do have a gun collection, but no Colt.”

“What kind of weapons?” Greg asked.

“Shotgun for birds. Thirty-ought-six rifle for deer. Thompson Contender 50-caliber pistol for game, and a Browning twenty-two for target practice. Never carry concealed. Always locked up.” Steve nodded as he ticked off the four guns on one hand.

“Quite an arsenal,” said Greg.

“You can believe that the first thing I did when I got back last night was to check them over. They were all as I left them. Unloaded. Untouched.”

“You told all this to the police?”

“Of course.”

“Does Laura ever handle your guns?”

“Never,” said Steve, shaking his head. “She hates guns.”

Greg frowned. “I see. And what can you tell me about Kim Connor showing up at your place Sunday night? That she got there at the perfect time to meet her demise?”

Steve stared at him. “What are you talking about? Are you trying to say that I had —”

“Think about it. I believe that Laura didn't do it, which means somebody else killed Miss Connor.” Greg paused, scrutinizing
Steve. “Or somebody had her killed. You knew the victim well. You must have some idea of who could have done this.”

Steve wiped beads of sweat off his forehead and shook his head. “I don't.”

“Fine.” Greg leaned in. “Before you talk to Laura, however, you've got to agree that everything said between you and your wife and between you and me is held in strictest confidence. It's called privileged communication. Do you agree?”