Ben was doing double time across the street toward his van when he heard Joni shout. “Be-en!”
He stopped, and a moment later, she caught up to him. “Sorry, Joni, I’m running late. I have to get to McAlester-”
“The penitentiary? To see another of your glamorous clients?”
“Something like that. You can give me the maintenance update later, okay?”
“It’s not about the house, Benjy. I took Giselle to the vet, like you asked.”
“And you got her… got her…”
“Fixed? No, I didn’t.”
“But you said-”
“I know I said I’d take care of it. But there was a problem.”
“I’m waiting.”
Joni grinned from one high cheekbone to the other. “She’s already preggers, Ben.”
The color drained from Ben’s face. “Giselle? Pregnant? How-?”
“Do I really need to explain that to you again, Ben?”
“I mean-she spends the whole day locked up in the apartment.”
“Apparently she busted out. Or a furry friend busted in.”
“But-she can’t! I’m in the middle of a huge life-or-death case. I don’t have time for this.”
“You’ll make time.”
“And-I don’t know anything about delivering kittens.”
“Don’t panic, Ben. I’ll be there for the blessed event. It usually pretty well takes care of itself.”
“And then there’ll be all those kittens!”
“That is usually how it works, yeah.”
“What am I going to do with all those kittens?”
“You’ll think of something.”
“This can’t happen, Joni. You’re the handyman. Do something… handy.”
Smiling, Joni put her arm around him and led him to his car. “Sorry, pal, it’s already a done deal.” She reached into the pocket of her flannel shirt and pulled out a pink candy cigar. “Congratulations, Ben. You’re going to be a father.”
“You know, I really shouldn’t be telling you this,” Dr. Bennett said as she artfully uncrossed and recrossed her legs. “I shouldn’t.”
Mike smiled. He was happy because his years of experience with interrogations told him that when the witness started insisting that they really shouldn’t be talking-it was a sure sign he was getting close to something good.
“I’m afraid we have to insist,” Sergeant Baxter said firmly.
She wasn’t playing hardball yet, but Mike knew she was only about two sentences away. And unless he missed his guess, once Baxter started playing the big bad, Bennett would retreat and the questioning would come to an abrupt end.
“First, there’s the matter of doctor-patient privilege to consider.”
“That didn’t prevent you from speaking with us before. You said the privilege died with Erin.”
“But that was different. At that time, you were inquiring into her death. I thought I not only could speak but should speak. But this.” She shook her head. “This is something altogether different. I don’t know that this has anything to do with her death.”
“With all due respect,” Baxter replied, “we have to be the judge of that.”
“I know, I know. But still…” Bennett’s hands gestured futilely in the air. “I just don’t like it.”
“We could subpoena you, Doctor.”
“Fine. Subpoena me. We both know what will happen. I’ll claim privilege, the judge will put me in jail for a few hours, and then I’ll go home. And you’ll be none the wiser.” She hesitated. “I just don’t know what I should do.”
Which was Mike’s cue. He stepped closer to the interrogation table. He had deliberately staged the questioning, calling Bennett at a time when she was out of the office and claiming great urgency, forcing her to come to him. He wanted this interview to take place at police headquarters, not in the cushy comfort of Bennett’s home or office. He didn’t want her to be comfortable. He wanted her to be on edge, at least a little. He wanted her to feel vulnerable.
“I know what you should do, ma’am. You should tell us everything you know. Even if you don’t see the relevance. You should give us unrestricted access to your files.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You can. And you will.” He leaned across the table, hunched like a vulture, his eyes burning into hers. “I insist.”
Bennett drew back. “Are you trying to intimidate me?”
“Yeah. Is it working?”
“Kind of.” She ran a nervous finger across her lips. “You do that smoldering-intensity thing really well.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice.”
“Seriously, some of my patients are major-league bad boys, murderers and rapists and such. But they don’t give me chills the way you just did.”
Mike shrugged. “It’s a gift.”
Bennett allowed herself a small smile. “What makes you so sure there was some dark family secret Erin was hiding?”
“I’m not sure of anything. But Dr. Harris was making some pretty broad hints, and he generally seemed to know what he was talking about.”
“The man is a quack.”
“But a quack who spent a lot of time talking to Erin Faulkner.”
“I don’t see how this could possibly relate to her death.”
“I do. And believe me when I say that if you withhold evidence that might help us break this case”-he glanced at Baxter-“or put it to bed once and for all, I will come down on you. Hard.”
Bennett’s long-nailed fingers fluttered in the air. “I can’t prove any of this.”
“Tell us what she told you.”
Bennett frowned, started again. “There were some indications of… child abuse. In Erin Faulkner’s past.”
“Indications from?”
Bennett sighed. “From Erin. She first revealed it to me during hypnosis. After that, she talked about it more freely.”
“And her father was the molester.”
“That was… what she said. Yes.” She took a shallow breath. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Actually, yes. I’ve quit and I don’t care to be tempted.”
“It would really calm me.”
All the more reason to say no. “Sorry. Departmental policy.”
She was wearing a vivid red dress that stopped at midthigh. Very attractive, but not very professional. Certainly not the image of the icy lady psychiatrist. Mike wondered if she had been planning to go out on a date. Or maybe hit the singles bars. “Erin was conflicted, and this dark chapter in her past only made it worse. Of course she grieved for what had happened to her family, and she felt a good deal of guilt about having survived when the others did not. But I sensed there was also a certain amount of… relief.”
“Because the man who had been molesting her was gone?” Baxter suggested.
“Perhaps.”
“Did she give you any details?” Mike asked.
“She did. But do you really want to hear them? As she explained it, the abuse initially just involved touching. Inappropriate touching. But as she got older, it… progressed.”
“To intercourse?”
“I don’t think so. But there was definitely intimate contact. Sexual contact.”
Baxter nodded. “And did you believe Erin?”
Bennett hesitated before answering. “I have learned to be cautious about such accusations. Especially when they originate under hypnosis. She seemed very convincing. But there have been cases of false accusations.”
“Did you think Erin was lying?”
“No, I certainly didn’t think she was lying. But it is possible she was… mistaken.”
“Okay,” Mike said, “did you think she was mistaken?”
“No. But I’m not a human polygraph. I can’t eliminate the possibility. And in a case such as this one-when the complainant has been through a great deal of emotional trauma, when the accusations only arise years after the incident, when the accused molester is long gone and utterly unable to defend himself-there is cause for concern.”
“You’re being very diplomatic, Doctor,” Mike said, “but not terribly helpful. Did you believe her?”
“Yes,” Bennett said, raising her chin. “I did. But I’m not anxious to tarnish a dead man’s memory without objective proof.”
“Is there anyone else who knew about these accusations?”
Bennett shrugged. “I don’t know. It seems unlikely. As I said, they only emerged under hypnosis.”
“And when was that?”
“About six months ago.”
“But you can’t rule out the possibility that she told this to someone else.”
“I suppose not. Why?”
Mike pushed away from the table. “Because it opens up a whole new world of possible motives, Doctor. That’s why.”
“Can you think of anyone else Erin might’ve told about this?” Baxter asked.
Bennett pondered a moment. “Well, she was seeing a young man for a while. James Wesley.”
Mike nodded. “We’ve spoken to him.”
“But the relationship didn’t progress far. They never became intimate. Frankly, I don’t think Erin was ready for that yet. And I can’t imagine the subject coming up casually over dinner.”
“What about Sheila Knight?” Baxter asked.
“It’s possible. Sheila knew Erin for years-even before the tragedy. She could conceivably have known about the abuse when it was happening.”
“Then that’s our next stop. Thank you, Doctor.”
The relief on her face was evident. “Am I free to go? I have an engagement tonight.”
“Let me check with my superior officer,” Baxter said wryly. She turned her head. “Can she go?”
“Yeah, you can go,” Mike said, then added, absolutely straight-faced, “But don’t leave town.”
Did he really look that much worse than the last time? Ben wondered as he peered at the man on the other side of the glass. Or was this just the product of an overactive imagination, perhaps augmented with feelings of guilt and senseless responsibility? It had only been a few days. Maybe it was the harsh glare of the overhead lighting, the clouding effect on Ben’s contact lenses.
Or perhaps Ray really had aged in the hours since Ben had seen him last. Think of all he had been through recently. Almost executed. Then the key prosecution witness recants. Then she dies before she can tell the authorities and the judge declines to grant his petition for relief. And once again, an execution date is looming, drawing near all too quickly. Maybe the recent developments had taken a toll on Ray’s body that to anyone else would simply be unimaginable. Maybe that was the reality of life on death row.
“I wish I had more to report,” Ben said into the receiver, “but it seems as if all we uncover are more questions. Interesting questions. Important questions. But damn few answers.”
“I like Christina’s theory about a second assailant,” Ray said. “It makes a certain sense. There was so much death, so much destruction. A second person is definitely credible.”
“A second person with a heart of gold? Who nonetheless participated in the torture and murder of an entire family?”
Ray hunched his shoulders. “Heart of gold might be stretching it. Some vestige of morality, perhaps. And we don’t know to what degree he participated in the killing. He or she, that is.”
“I’m still not convinced. Serial killing is not usually a group activity.”
“I don’t know from serial killers,” Ray said. “But it seems to me this crime breaks the mold in several respects.”
“That’s what the psychiatrist thought, too. Dr. Bennett. She seemed to have a hard time coping with the idea of anyone being cruel enough to do this.”
Ray grunted. “This from a woman who puts pins through butterflies.”
“Well, yeah.” Ben glanced at his notes. “Do you know anything about this organ clinic where Erin worked?”
“Sorry,” Ray replied. “Never heard of it. I don’t think it existed when I was last a free man.”
“It did, actually. Although Erin didn’t work there yet.”
“Any reason to think her workplace has anything to do with this case?”
“Not really,” Ben admitted. “I’m just trying to be thorough. I did get a tip from my pal Mike at the police department. He says the feds have been quietly taking a look at the clinic. They think Dr. Palmetto may have been involved in some black-market organ dealing.”
“Shades of Robin Cook.”
“Apparently it’s a big-money racket. Organs are even being sold over the Internet, which makes it all the harder to catch the marketeers.”
Ray thought for a moment. “If Erin was involved in something like that, it would definitely give someone a motive to eliminate her.”
“The thought had occurred. Does the name James Wesley mean anything to you?”
“No. Should it?”
“He dated Erin. Said she had some… peculiarities.”
“Another news flash.”
“Granted. Although this ear-candling stuff she went in for is pretty weird. Was her father like that?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“You got along with Faulkner, as I recall. Didn’t you?”
Ray thought a moment before answering. “We got along well enough. I worked directly under him, and he could be a bit of a blowhard. Especially after he started having such success with his flavor formulae and bringing in the big bucks. But there was no ill will between us or anything like that. I’ve told you before.”
“I know. I just wanted to see if any of this had spurred any old memories.”
“Sorry.”
“That just about covers it,” Ben said, closing his folder. “I don’t have anyone left to talk to.”
“What am I, chopped liver?”
“You know what I mean. Anyone who might have new information about the murders.” Ben curled the phone cord around his finger. “I was thinking… I might talk to Carrie.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because I said no.”
“Ray…”
“Carrie has been through enough, thanks to me. I won’t put her through any more misery.”
“Ray, if she can help you-”
“But she can’t. If she could, she already would have.”
“Still-”
“There is no ‘still,’ Ben. Listen to me. You will not talk to Carrie. Under any circumstances. And if you go against my wishes on this-you’re fired.”
Mike drove his Trans Am crosstown, heading south toward the home of Sheila Knight. Baxter was in the passenger seat.
“By the way,” Baxter said, staring straight ahead, “thanks for letting me take the lead on the Bennett interrogation.”
“No problem. You were useful.”
“Useful?”
“Can’t be a bad cop without a good cop.”
“Well. I’m so glad I could be… useful.” Out the corner of his eye, Mike could see her jaw clenching. “Thanks also for not trampling all over me when you decided to cut in. I mean, you could’ve just shoved me aside. After I was no longer useful.”
Mike licked his lips.
“You didn’t have to do that. After all, you are the superior officer.”
“Baxter…”
“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” She stared out the side window, giving Mike the back of her ash-blonde hair. “You believe what Bennett was saying?”
“I think she believes it. That doesn’t mean it’s true.”
“Yeah. Hard to size up a woman who’s so full of contradictions. Working with criminals by day, butterflies by night. Smart, but funny. Cold, but horny.”
“Horny?”
“Oh yeah. She was hot for you.”
“For me?” Mike’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “Are you making fun?”
“I’m not. She was drooling for you, Morelli.”
“You’re nuts.”
“I know a woman in heat when I see one. When you leaned over the table and started playing the stern disciplinarian, she turned to putty.”
“Go on.”
“If you’d turned her over your knee and spanked her, we’d probably have cracked the case by now.”
Mike rolled his eyes. “Baxter, you’re full of it.”
“Says you. Why do you think she suddenly started spilling her guts? She went from ‘I shouldn’t say anything’ to ‘Let me tell you everything I know’ in about ten seconds flat.”
“I attributed that to my brilliant interrogation technique.”
“Sure, Morelli. Keep telling yourself that.”
“That shrink was not hot for me.”
Baxter narrowed an eye. “Why? Is that a problem for you?”
“Problem? What do you mean?”
“Why are you protesting so much? I’m no expert on women, but she seems like a pretty darned attractive specimen to me. And she’s bound to be loaded.”
Mike felt his palms starting to sweat. “Well… she’s not my type.”
“What is your type?”
“Never mind.”
“Do you have a type?”
Mike felt his face reddening. “Yes, I have a type.”
“Does it involve women?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t involve Dr. Hayley Bennett.”
Baxter held up her hands. “All right. All right already.”
They drove in silence. Baxter didn’t think she should say anything more, and Mike was almost afraid to. Until he couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Look, are you just giving me more grief here? Or do you really-”
“She was on fire, Morelli. Liquid flame. Undressing you with her eyes.”
“Wow.” He continued driving, eyes straight ahead. “Guess I missed that. Thanks for letting me know.”
“My pleasure.” After a moment, she turned herself around in the bucket seat, just enough to face him. “So, does this mean I can drive the Trans Am?”
“Not a chance.” He paused. “But if you keep it up, I might let you touch one of the mag wheels.”
“What, you’re going to fire me after seven years because I want to talk to your old girlfriend?”
“You got it, Ben.”
“Christina would say that’s a good reason to do it.”
“Look-just humor me on this. She couldn’t possibly tell you anything of interest. Why do you think she would?”
“Well, to tell you the truth-your old lab pal Hubbard put the idea in my head.”
“Hubbard? Why?”
“He told me about your social life together. When you weren’t huddled over the Scrabble board, that is.”
“Hubbard’s full of it.”
“He painted a fairly vivid portrait. Cruising the singles bars and whatnot. I know that was before Carrie, but still-”
“Did you have Christina with you? He was probably trying to impress her with his tales of macho studdom.”
“Still, if there’s any chance-”
“Ben-I’m begging you. I know I can’t fire you. No one’s going to take my case on the eve of execution. But I’ve caused that poor woman enough torment. Don’t bother her, okay?”
Ben looked at him long and hard. “I’ll have to think about it some more,” he said finally.
Ray stared at him, stony-eyed. “You’re going to see her, aren’t you?”
“I’ll let you know.”
Ray grunted. He was obviously unhappy, but no doubt realized there was nothing more he could do.
“Anything I can get you?” Ben asked.
“How about a cab ride to the nearest synagogue?”
“Are you doing all right? You look tired.”
“I haven’t been sleeping well. I still get the nightmares.”
Ben remained silent. He didn’t have to ask what they were about.
“You don’t know how close I came. They actually had me strapped down on that table, before the call came in from the courthouse. They had started filling the needles. I thought it was… was over.”
Ben wished he could reach out, could touch, could offer some measure of comfort in some way. But of course, he couldn’t. Ben’d had a few brushes with mortality himself, but nothing that could even come close to what Ray must be experiencing-the slow, inexorable, measured approach of an all-but-certain death.
“Now every time I close my eyes, I see that table. Right before me. The straps. The needles. The warden with his finger on the button. All of it taunting me, saying, ‘We let you go once. But we’re still here. And we’ll get you.’ “
“That must be…” Ben couldn’t think of a word that began to describe it. “Almost unbearable.”
Ray did not disagree. “I see the rabbi every day now. We get down on our knees and we say the prayers. But none of it helps. None of it makes me… forget. Where I’m headed. What they want to do to me. I have a burning sensation in my stomach and every day it gets worse.”
“We’re doing everything we can,” Ben said, realizing as he said it what little help it must be. “If there’s any way to stop this, we will.”
Ray’s dark and hooded eyes peered out from behind his fingers. “As a Jew, I should believe in miracles. But I don’t. Never have. Much as I might like to delude myself with hope-I can’t. Much as I might like to believe there’s someone up there looking after me-I know better. When the guard closes the door at night-I’m alone in the cell. And when they strap me down to that table-I’ll be alone. No more last-minute reprieves. No miracles. No eleventh-hour redemption.” He shook his head with despair. “I don’t think I believe in anything anymore.”
Ben pressed his hand against the glass. “Believe in this, Ray. I’m not going to let those nightmares come true. Not without a fight.”
Ray pressed his own hand against the other side of the glass. But he did not say anything. And the hollow, lost look in his eyes did not fade.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Ms. Knight, we have legitimate information-”
“From a shrink? Someone who was paid to talk to Erin?”
“Dr. Bennett seemed very certain-”
“Well, she got it wrong.” Sheila Knight was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of jeans with a rip in the right knee. She was wearing no makeup and her hair was in need of a wash. Just the same, she was gorgeous.
“Apparently Erin first revealed under hypnosis-”
“That’s a crock.”
Mike inhaled deeply. He was tired of being interrupted. Maybe it was just him, but Sheila’s protestations seemed almost too vehement. “Is it possible Erin told her psychiatrist something she would never tell anyone else?”
“It is not possible,” Sheila said firmly. “Erin told me everything. If I didn’t know about it, it didn’t happen. So I can state absolutely and positively-this did not happen!”
Mike decided to change the subject. “What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m a tech writer. Freelance. I write all those boring little manuals you don’t read whenever you buy something.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I’ve done almost everything. Instruction manuals for kitchen appliances. Construction manuals for children’s toys. Did an employee training book for a fast-food chain. That sort of thing.”
“Stay busy?”
“More than I want, actually. The first few years were slow, but once I got my name out there-wow. I have all the work I want now. I even farm some out to friends, subcontracts.”
“That’s wonderful.”
Mike continued looking at her. He didn’t want to be the one who reintroduced the subject, and he hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. She knew what he wanted to talk about.
“Look,” Sheila said, finally, “I know the police have to follow all their leads. But I’m telling you-this is nonsense. I knew Erin, all through school. I was over at her house constantly. I knew her father-for that matter, I knew every member of the family. If there had been something going on, something… horrible, I would’ve known about it. There’s no way I could have not known about it.”
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, if you’re certain.” Mike paused. “Did you know the gun that killed Erin was coated with hyperthermal luminous paraffin?”
Baxter gave him a long look, but remained quiet.
“No,” Sheila said. “I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s like invisible paint. Rubs off on anyone who fires the gun.”
“So?”
“So all we have to do is find the perp and put his hand under the luminal scanner. Unmistakable ID.”
“Wouldn’t it wear off after a few days?”
Mike shook his head. “Absent a special chemical bath, it wouldn’t wear off for a year.”
“So,” Sheila said, knotting her fingers together, “that stuff must’ve gotten all over Erin’s hand.”
“It was,” Mike said. “But my partner here thinks maybe… it got on someone else’s hand as well.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Yeah. I think so, too.” He slapped his knees. “But if there is someone else, we’ll catch him. No one can stay clear of the police for long. Did you know we can listen in on phone calls now?”
Baxter’s eyebrows moved closer together, but she maintained her silence.
“We can get lists from the phone company. Tells us who called who and when.”
Sheila’s lips twitched. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah. Times are changing.” He pushed himself out of his chair. Baxter followed. “Thank you for talking to us.”
“Sure.” She hesitated a moment. Mike got the distinct impression there was something else she wanted to say. “I know you’re just doing your jobs. But I do hope that eventually… soon… you’ll put this to rest. Put Erin to rest. She endured so much more than I could ever have handled. I don’t know how she did it. And I understand that, finally, she just couldn’t take it any longer. Thought she couldn’t go on.” Her eyes began to water. “I have to let her go now. I told you that before. I have to move on. But I can’t do that when you people keep coming around, asking questions, stirring it all up again.” She looked at Mike, tears beading in her eyes. “Please let it go. Please. Let her go.”
Miss Jackson’s was one of the oldest and most elite shopping emporiums in Tulsa. Technically a department store, it preferred to be thought of as a boutique (a three-story one), presumably to prevent comparisons to Sears and such. Nestled in the upscale Utica Square Mall, Miss Jackson’s was a bastion of well-heeled Tulsa society, the one place you could find Bruce Webber jewelry, Herendon china, Rolex watches, and a myriad of other lovely nonessential products linked by only one factor: they were all ungodly expensive.
Which explained why Ben never shopped at Miss Jackson’s. In fact, most of Utica Square was so far out of his reach he didn’t even like to visit. Well, maybe for dinner at the award-winning Polo Grill, ever since Christina got his name put on a plaque behind one of the booths as a birthday present. But shopping? Not hardly. Nonetheless, here he was on the first floor of Miss Jackson’s, watching the resident cosmetologist make over a matronly woman who clearly had nothing better to do with her day than, well, be made over.
“Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful!” the woman said, when the work was at last complete. “I can’t wait to show George. He’s waiting in the car.”
The cosmetologist blinked. “Your husband is waiting in the car?”
“My husband?” the woman said as she gathered her purchases. “George is my poodle.”
As soon as she was gone, Ben sidled up to the cosmetics counter. “Got anything in my color?”
It only took her a moment to place his face. “Ben.” The initial smile faded. “What brings you here?”
Ben extended his hands. “I was thinking maybe you could do my nails.”
“Oh, no.” She picked up a mascara pencil. “Let me do your eyes. That’s my specialty. And you have such long luscious eyelashes. Most women would kill for those.”
Ben grinned. “How have you been, Carrie?”
“I’ve been well, actually.” She paused. “And you know why?”
“Because you haven’t had to talk to me?”
“Very close.” She glanced over her shoulder, checking to see if anyone was watching them. “I suppose this is about Ray.”
“Of course.”
She pushed away from the counter. “I can’t talk to you, then.”
“Carrie, please.”
“Not about Ray, no.”
“Carrie, it’s important.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m sure it is. It always is.”
“Do you know where Ray is right now?”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea, yeah.”
“He’s on death row.”
“He’s been on death row for seven years.”
“Well, he won’t be in less than two weeks.”
“Because-” The light dawned. She looked downward. “Oh.”
“That’s why I need to talk with you. We’ve only got one chance. And frankly, it’s not much of a chance. But we’ve got to take it.”
She turned away. “I still can’t talk to you.”
“If it’s because you’re working, I can come back-”
“No. It’s not that. I just… can’t talk to you.”
“Carrie, Ray’s life is literally on the line here. If we-”
“Are you listening to me, Ben?” The sudden increase in volume took them both by surprise. “I’m not saying I won’t talk to you.” Her eyes rose until they found his. “I’m saying you don’t want me to talk to you.”
“So what do you think?”
They had traveled in silence for the first ten minutes of the drive downtown, and Baxter thought that was long enough. “Do you believe Sheila?”
Mike didn’t mince words. “No.”
“You’re kidding.”
“She’s holding something back. Or flat out lying.”
“Really. Well, tell me this, super-sleuth. What possible motive could Sheila Knight have for lying about whether her deceased best friend was sexually molested?”
Mike thought a long time before answering. “When they were young, Erin and Sheila were nearly inseparable. They spent lots of time together. As Sheila said herself, she was a frequent guest at Erin’s house. She came over for play dates, study nights, birthday parties.” He paused. “And sleepovers.”
“So you did break up with Ray,” Ben said. “And you did it for a reason. A reason other than the fact that he’d been convicted of murder.”
After Carrie made some excuse to her supervisor, they’d left the store and begun strolling down the sidewalks of the outdoor mall. It was a gorgeous Tulsa day, and the bustling human and vehicular traffic gave them a feeling of anonymity. “It’s been so long.”
“But there was something else.”
“Yes. Even before he was arrested. After our engagement.”
Ben felt an aching in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t like the direction this was taking. But he had to press on. “What happened?”
“It’s not good.”
Which might explain why Ray hadn’t wanted Ben to talk to her. “Still-”
“It won’t help your case.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“I’m telling you-”
“I know you’re trying to help me, Carrie. And trying to help Ray. Or not hurt him, at any rate. But if I don’t make a breakthrough soon, we’re going to go down in flames at the habeas hearing. And if I have to swallow some bad information to get to that breakthrough-so be it.”
Carrie looked away. Her eyes were fixed somewhere above them, in the clouds. “He hit me.”
Ben closed his eyes. “Ray?”
“Yeah. We were at a club. I don’t remember what the row was about. I think maybe I didn’t like the way he ogled the chick at the next table. Something real important like that. Anyway, we’d probably both had too much to drink. Tempers flared. We took it outside.” She shook her head. “That was my mistake. If we’d stayed inside the club, it never would’ve happened. But once we were alone in the parking lot…”
“How bad was it?”
“Bad enough. I mean, he only actually struck me twice. But it hurt like hell. Big black bruises. The doctor said he almost dislocated my jaw.”
Thank God the prosecution never found this witness, Ben thought.
“ ’Course I told the doctor I had fallen down the stairs or something stupid like that. But I don’t think he believed it for a minute.”
“Was Ray… sorry?”
“Oh yes. Immediately. He picked me up off the gravel and held me. Stroked me. Said he didn’t know what came over him. But that didn’t change anything.”
Ben touched her arm gently, steering her toward Queenie’s, a popular sandwich emporium.
“That’s when I should’ve broken off the engagement. But I didn’t. I already had so much invested in Ray. So much time and energy and love. I kept telling myself, it was just a one time thing. Just an accident. It will never happen again.”
“And did it?”
“No. But there was never a chance. Two days later, he was arrested.”
“And he hasn’t been free since.”
“Right.” Carrie’s eyes dropped. Her blunt-cut blonde hair hung like a veil around her face. “I tried to be the support he needed. But the memory wouldn’t go away. How could I forget what he had done? How he had… violated me. My trust. And then, in the courtroom, when I heard him accused of all those horrible things…”
Ben could see where this was going. And as she had predicted-he didn’t like it.
“After I heard them accuse Ray of that atrocity, I kept saying to people, ‘Not my Ray. He couldn’t do that.’ But I had seen him lose his temper. I had seen him be… violent.”
“Carrie, I don’t want you to think I’m making light of domestic violence, but there’s a big difference between what he did to you in that parking lot and what happened to the Faulkner family.”
“I know. I know.” She clenched her hands together, pressing them against her chest. “But after that, I could never be certain. That’s why I broke it off with him, eventually. I felt like a heel. I know all our friends thought I was being faithless. Bailing out when the going got tough. But I simply couldn’t be sure. And if I couldn’t be sure-I couldn’t be with him.”
She brushed her hair back. Ben could see the pain this conversation was causing her, deeply etched in every line of her face. “I could’ve been faithful to a man on death row-I really could’ve,” she said, as if pleading her case to an imaginary court. “But not if I suspected he was guilty.”
Long after dark, Ben tossed his briefcase into its designated spot by the coffee table and collapsed onto the ratty sofa that was the centerpiece of his living room. What a day. He was bushed. All he wanted to do now was rest. And as it happened, for once, he had managed to get inside the house and make it up to his room without being confronted by tenants who couldn’t make their rent, without having Joni assault him with a host of bills and maintenance problems, without even having Giselle purr and whine and demand immediate attention. For once, they had all just left him alone.
He missed them.
A sad state of affairs, he told himself, when you’re dependent upon coworkers and fussy felines for social interaction. Hadn’t he resolved that he was going to get out, that he was going to start having a life? That he was going to be more like Christina and less like himself? Of course, he’d been swamped with this Goldman habeas work. It was as dire as a case could be-life and death in the truest sense. He had to give it his full attention, he had to work long hours.
But that was just an excuse and he knew it. Yes, this was an important case, and yes, he wanted to do everything possible to help Ray, to prevent a horrible injustice. But when had it ever been any different? He always had some big case going, some crusade that demanded his full devotion. Because when all was said and done, working long hours at the office was preferable to coming home and being… alone. Again.
He saw the telephone resting on the end table. He was staring at it, but for some reason, he had the strangest feeling that it was staring at him. That it was trying to get his attention. Beckoning to him.
What was Christina doing tonight? More than once she had suggested not too subtly that he would be welcome to join her on some engagement or another. Maybe he should call her and see what she was up to.
His hand hovered over the receiver. He had to strike the right tone, keep it casual. For starters, she had to have an escape clause. In case she was just being nice and really dreaded the thought of going somewhere with him. After all, she did see him all day, most days. She might not be that excited at the prospect of spending an evening with him as well. And he had to make it clear that this was just a fun thing, no pressure, not really like a date. I mean, it would be a date, he supposed, but not a date date. Not a, you know, big romantic deal or anything.
And the reason for that was…? He tried to think of a good answer. Because his romantic life was so booked up? No. Because he didn’t like Christina? No. So what was the problem? Well, it would certainly complicate life in the office. The two partners dating. Could make things very uncomfortable. And if it went bad, heaven forbid he should see Christina in the role of the woman scorned.
But why was he letting his brain wander down these paths? He wasn’t planning a marriage proposal, for pete’s sake. He was just talking about calling up a coworker and seeing if she wanted to go get a drink or something. It was a perfectly common office-worker-type thing to do. Utterly ordinary. They should’ve done it a long time ago.
He gripped the receiver and brought it to the side of his head. He started dialing her number…
And hung up. He couldn’t do this. He just couldn’t. He wanted to, damn it. But he couldn’t.
He walked to the kitchen, poured himself a tall glass of chocolate milk, then sat down at the piano and started banging out whatever tune came to mind. It was a little late for this, he realized, but the nice thing about being the landlord was that there was no one to whom the other tenants could complain about you. He played some of his Janis Ian tunes, then a Harry number, then his favorites by Christine Lavin. He started “Old Fashioned Romance,” but for some reason, it was just making him sad.
He went to bed early, planning the next day’s interviews as he tucked himself in. If he was only going to do one thing in this ridiculous little life of his-work-then he’d damn well better do a good job of it.
This is so pathetic, he told himself as he eyes finally closed. Maybe I should get a dog.
A long impassioned mewling from the kitchen reopened his eyes.
Make that a male dog.