Death Row (12 page)

"How was the doctor appointment yesterday?"

"Oh fine, fine." April had never asked, but she must suspect that the doctor he took off work to see once a week was a psychiatrist, just as she must have guessed that medication was enlarging his breasts and causing his hair to fall out. How much did she know about his past? he had often wondered. The owner knew, of course, and the flunky who had hired him. He had no way of being certain, but he suspected they had also informed April. A corporate variation of Megan's Law-inform the young female employee that the man she's working with is a former sex offender. Convicted of a crime involving an eleven-year-old girl.

If April knew, she didn't appear to hold it against him. To the contrary, she made a point of being open, casual, friendly. Joking around. Making a show of the fact that she could handle it. That he didn't make her uncomfortable. Except of course that the fact that she had to make the show proved that he did.

And she wasn't the only one putting on a show. He was performing, too, every day they were together. He also had to be open, casual, friendly-but not too. And it was hard work. Because he liked April. Very much. She was almost exactly his type. Dark hair, dark eyes. A little old, but in truth she didn't look her age. Sometimes, when he was certain she wasn't looking, he'd cop a look at her bending over in the storage room, or adjusting her sports bra in the mirror. And when he did, he'd feel something. Very definitely. Something.

Not like he used to. Not like before the medication. But the Depo didn't eliminate sex drive, as Dr. Bennett had reminded him countless times. It only suppressed it. And as long as he had gone without... release, all the drugs on earth couldn't suppress everything he was feeling.

"D'you do anything fun last night?" April asked.

Why did she want to know? His head jerked around. "Nothing much. Watched television. You know."

"Yeah. D'you see that deal on PBS about the spiders?" She shivered. "I hate spiders."

As she shivered, her whole torso, even those petite little titties tucked away in that sports bra, shimmied in a way that made him feel as if he must knock her to the floor and take her right now. Take what he wanted, what was his. Lick her and bite her and do her, hard. Over and over again. Do her over and over again until she was unconscious. Just rip the damn uniform off her and take her-

"Is something wrong?"

Aravena shook himself back to earth. "No, nothing. Why?"

"You seemed... I don't know. Lost in thought or something."

"I'm just distracted. A lot on my mind. I've had... some troubles, lately."

"Sorry to hear that." She reached forward and gently placed her hand against his cheek. "Is there anything I can do?"

That just about did it, right then and there. The warm, electric touch of her hand on his cheek, coupled with those magic words. Is there anything I can do? He was fully erect now. It had been weeks since he'd felt like this. "No... I-I'm fine."

"Really?" She removed her hand. " 'Cause you don't look fine."

Aravena took a deep gulp of air. Control, he told himself. You must stay in control. There are security cameras in here. He couldn't risk blowing everything. Not when he was so close. "No, I'm okay."

"Whatever. Want me to get the receipts?"

"Sure." An easy answer, since he wasn't allowed to handle the receipts. He could take the money and put it in the register, but he was never allowed to take it away. Not that the boss didn't trust him, as he had once explained. He just wanted to make Aravena's life easier by removing temptation. Standard procedure for all ex-cons.

She stepped beside him and popped open the cash register, then began putting most of the cash into a designated zip-top FastTrak money bag. As she reached across, her breasts inevitably brushed against him. Aravena experienced a surge even greater than before. He could feel the blood pumping, rushing through him, stiffening him even more. He had to uncross his legs, just to keep from exploding. He was sweating, and he knew he wouldn't be able to restrain himself much longer. Hurriedly, clumsily, he pushed off the stool.

"I'll just be a minute," April said.

"That's fine. I'm... parched. I'm going to get a drink."

"Nothing too strong now," she said, grinning. "Don't dip into the company booze."

"I don't drink liquor," he said, not adding: I'm not allowed.

Aravena entered the men's room and shut the door. He splashed water on his face. It didn't help. He was just going to have to take care of this problem the old-fashioned way. He unzipped his slacks and sat down on the toilet stool.

While he worked he closed his eyes and thought of many women. Dr. Bennett, Erin. Even that bratty teenager who asked about the bras. And April. She was the central vision in his fantasy life, today anyway. He dreamed about the way she talked, the way she walked, the way she put bags of potato chips on the high shelf. What he had felt when she touched him. How she looked. Each and every magnificent feature.

But most of all, he thought about her eyes, her deep dark rich eyes. He loved those eyes. He wanted them. He wanted them for his very own.

When Ben returned to his office, he found his staff huddled around a desk passing Polaroids.

"Baby pictures?" Ben guessed.

Jones pulled a face. "C'mon, Boss. Paula and I have only been married a few months."

"Yes, but I know how industrious you are." He snatched one of the pics. "Somebody buy a house?"

"Loving," Christina answered. "A cabin. Out in the woods."

"Cool," Ben said, eyeing another photo. "A weekend retreat? Fishing and hunting and water sports and such?"

Christina shook her head and silently mouthed, "No."

Loving pushed himself up on the desk, flexing his considerable biceps. "It's a retreat, you got that right. But not for playin' around."

"This is where Loving plans to live," Jones explained. "After the impending global economic holocaust."

"Ah." Ben nodded. "I've been meaning to get a place for that myself."

"It's fully stocked," Christina explained. "Freeze-dried food, bottled water, and gold coins."

"Gold coins?"

"It's the only currency that's gonna be worth a damn," Loving explained. "After the holocaust, I mean."

"And when are we expecting this holocaust?"

Loving's voice dropped. "It could be any day now."

"Don't I remember you saying it was starting a few years ago, when the bottom started dropping out of all the tech stocks? It didn't happen."

Loving raised a knowing eyebrow. "Because they didn't want it to happen."

"And
they
being...?"

"The international banking cabal. They sold short all those tech stocks before the crash, then raked in the money."

"How could they know the prices were going to drop?"

"Because they're the ones pulling the strings. They're the ones making it all happen."

"Do you happen to know these people's names?" Ben asked. "Because I'd like to put them in touch with my stockbroker."

"Of course I don't know their names," Loving said solemnly. "If I knew their names, I'd be dead."

Somehow, Ben suspected he wasn't going to get the best of this conversation. And frankly, he didn't have the time. "Staff meeting in the main conference room in ten minutes. I want everyone there."

"I won't claim this case will be easy," Ben said, standing at the head of the table.

"They never are," Jones groused.

"The odds against getting a prisoner released via habeas corpus are staggering. And we have some procedural problems, too."

Christina nodded. "You mean the Antiterrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act."

"You got it." Ben passed copies of the document around the room. "This was enacted in 1996 in the aftermath of the bombing in Oklahoma City. It placed extremely tight restrictions on habeas relief. Once, habeas petitions could be filed anytime. No longer. Now there are tight deadlines. As soon as the state postconviction proceedings end, the time limits on federal relief start ticking."

"Which is why we filed our petition," Christina explained. "Even though we had nothing new to say. But now we do."

"I thought you weren't allowed to introduce issues in federal appeals that weren't presented to the state courts," Jones said.

"Technically, you're not," Ben replied. "But there are exceptions. Such as when newly discovered evidence arises. Or when there was good cause for the failure to raise the issue earlier."

"Or the
Coleman
exception," Christina added. "When the failure to present the issue would result in a fundamental miscarriage of justice."

"Right. Which the
Gilbert
case defined as arising when a constitutional violation resulted in the conviction of an innocent person. Which gives us a back door to argue Ray Goldman's actual innocence. We've got a hearing in less than a week. We need to be ready to present strong evidence that Ray was wrongfully convicted."

"How are we going to do that?" Jones asked. "Now that Erin Faulkner is dead."

"That, my friend, is the million-dollar question. What we need is a million-dollar answer."

"She actually said that? She said, 'no grabass in your Trans Am'?"

Mike nodded. "Her exact words. And get this. When I pulled up to take her to the crime scene-she wanted to drive. Even after I warned her."

"Your Trans Am?" Sergeant Tomlinson slapped his forehead. "She must've been kidding."

"She was not kidding. She was trying to rattle me."

Frank Bolen, the third cop in the canteen, a large man with a voice as deep as a well, was equally amazed. "I woulda thought she'd rather have you drive. To keep your hands occupied." He winked. "So you wouldn't be playin' grabass."

"It's a control issue," Mike said, cradling his coffee. "She wants to prove she's on top. That she's the boss."

"And she's been here how long?" Tomlinson asked. "A day and a half?"

"Whatever."

"Don't get me wrong," Bolen said. "She's a damn fine-looking woman. I'd let her be on top. So to speak. I love the way she fills out those Levi's. She's a got a first-rate ass. Don't you think, Mike?"

"Hadn't noticed," he said, not making eye contact.

"But all the cotton candy in the world ain't gonna make me go for some chick who always wants to drive."

"I think she had some bad experiences in Oklahoma City. I don't know. But she's definitely got her panties in a twist about something."

"Maybe that time of the month," Tomlinson offered.

"From what I hear," Bolen said, "this chick's got permanent PMS. The all-year, all-the-time variety. Thank God Blackwell didn't stick her with me."

"Yeah, well, it's not going to last," Mike said confidently.

"What makes you so sure?"

"The fact that I have more vacation and sick time saved up than everyone else in the department combined. As soon as this suicide is closed, and before Blackwell can give us anything else, I'm going on vacation. And while I'm out basking on the sunny shores of some tropical beach, darn it, I'm likely to become sick." He winked. "Bad case of the blue flu."

"You rogue," Tomlinson said.

"Yeah," Bolen echoed. "Hope it ain't terminal."

"Blackwell won't be able to let her sit idle forever. He'll have to pair her with someone else. At any rate, he won't see my butt back till he does."

"Blackwell isn't stupid. He won't like it."

"Yeah, well, he shouldn't have tried to palm her off on me in the first place."

"He had to give her to someone."

"Not me." Mike polished off the rest of his coffee. "I know Blackwell's trying to punish me for that Burger Bliss screwup. But the weird thing is-I get the impression he's trying to punish her, too."

"Then he oughta just give her a spanking," Tomlinson said. "She might like that."

"I'll punish her," Bolen said boisterously. "I'll punish her with my brush hog."

"But to do that, you'd have to get your blade up," said a voice from the back of the room. "Which I very much doubt you could do."

Three jaws dropped.

Sergeant Baxter was standing behind them, at the door.

"Baxter," Mike said, tossing his crumpled cup into the trash. "How long have you been standing there?"

"So long I've heard enough macho bullshit to fill the Augean stables."

"Aw, Baxter, we were just-"

"Could I please have a word with you, Major Morelli?
Partner?
" she added icily.

"Of course," he said, eyes and teeth clenched as if in pain. Or about to be. "If you'll excuse me, boys."

"Remember," Tomlinson whispered, "don't let her drive."

"Brush hog," Bolen muttered. "Brush hog."

"Can't we put someone else on the stand to talk about what Erin said?" Loving asked Ben. "Like, you, f'r instance?"

"That would make things simpler, wouldn't it?" Ben answered. "But unfortunately, it would be hearsay. Even given the fact that Erin is now unable to testify, no judge would let it in. And even if one did, how persuasive would it be? The guy's defense attorney says that the recently deceased witness for the prosecution retracted her testimony? We'll never get Ray out with that."

"Then what?"

"I don't know. Yet. That's what I want all of you to find out."

"Sure thing, Boss," Jones said. "While I'm at it, I'll get you a hot stock tip from Loving's international banking cabal."

"This is not the time for sarcasm, Jones. This is the time to roll up our sleeves and work. Loving, I want you to start digging into Erin Faulkner's life. Digging deep. I want to know everything about her. I want you to talk to her friends, her coworkers, her psychiatrist. Anyone and everyone. I want to know everything she's done in the seven years since the assault on her family."