Defensive Wounds (17 page)

Frank reached Theresa, dropping into the abandoned chair. “You shouldn't have let her get away. She was his attorney, at least at first.”

The fist of fire grasped her stomach again. “I've got that much. What did he need an attorney for?”

Frank leaned in toward her, his voice low and controlled and deadly. “Rape.”

Theresa blinked, absorbing the word in all its horror.

Then he added, “And murder.”

Theresa forced herself to stay in her chair. Rachael was right around the corner, checking guests in and out and fielding requests for more towels, just as she had been for the past month.
Your daughter is in no more danger than she was this morning or last week. Do not panic.

Such a large chunk of parenthood consisted of telling oneself not to panic.

“Start from the beginning,” Theresa said.

“You're not going to faint, are you? You don't look so good.”

“What am I, some Victorian maiden? Spill.”

Now that he was not the only upset person in the room, Frank's shoulders relaxed a tick. “Besides, it's not like she's engaged to the kid. It's just a workplace flirtation. Get her another job and all will be well. Okay, here goes: Four years ago, when William was sixteen, a classmate of his, Jenna Simone, also sixteen, was found raped—presumably raped, no DNA—and bludgeoned in his living room. His parents were out of town. Apparently young William got passed-out drunk, then woke up with a hangover and blood on his hands. He called the cops. They took one look around and arrested him. Jenna's car was parked out front. William said he'd gone to a school dance and had no idea how he got home with Jenna. They were acquainted, but not dating or in any sort of relationship. I'm getting this from a friend reading me the arrest report, which was all she could find. Everything else is locked up tight. The parents had everything sealed.”

“That's all you can find out?”

“The
records
are sealed—but, happily, you can't seal people. The first officer on the scene is now working in Parma. Vice, on nights. I'll give him a call later.

“Wait, this wasn't that long ago. Why don't I remember it?”

“Dunno. It wasn't our case, it was Westlake's. I did try to call the two detectives who did the investigation—one retired last year and moved to Florida. Shook the dust of this place off his feet and never looked back, apparently doesn't stay in touch with nobody.”

Theresa looked away, chewing one thumbnail, and at that precise moment William Rosedale crossed the lobby. He and the other boy, the roly-poly one from the tower group, waited for an elevator.

He caught sight of Theresa and nodded without smiling, doing nothing to endear himself to the mother of a girl interested in him. Maybe, she thought with sudden hope, he wasn't interested in Rachael. Then she remembered the way he had brushed her daughter's hair, watched her lips as she spoke. He was interested, all right. More than interested.

So maybe he just didn't care what Theresa thought.

Frank was continuing. “I called the other guy, but he's tied up with a search warrant on a fence at the moment. I've met him—good guy, he'll talk to me. He's back working Property instead of Persons, though. Maybe this case got to him, he decided he'd rather deal with thieves than murderers. Can't blame him there.”

Theresa's heart pounded.
Surely the boy must see that I know, I must be staring at him as if he'd just turned a bright shade of fuchsia.
Maybe not, maybe there was enough space between them to put a silk screen over her widened eyes and gritted teeth.

She forced a smile that felt sick to her and lifted a hand. The elevator arrived, and William stepped into it with one long-legged stride. The other boy did not but turned to enter Muse. The restaurant sat on the other side of the lobby, featuring an always-burning fireplace.

“Frank,” she asked, past a lump in her throat that felt like coal, thick and dusty, “why is that boy not in jail?”

“Two words,” Frank said. “Marie Corrigan.”

“I thought you said Sonia was his attorney.”

“Yeah, for about a day and a half until Mummy and Daddy got back with their checkbook. Then Marie took over. I don't know how she did it, but she kept it in juvenile court and
then
got a not-guilty verdict.” Frank jerked his tie loose and rested the back of his head against the top of the chair. “I couldn't stand the woman, but she was one hell of a lawyer. And you know juries are always ten times more cautious when sentencing a juvenile. No matter what they've done, it's tough to look at some kid and send him to jail for the rest of his life.”

“How did Marie get the case?”

“I said I don't know. I got her name from the clerk of courts, but the transcripts are sealed, the depos are sealed, everything is sealed.”

“Except people. The prosecutor—”

“Exactly. Brian Morgan. You better talk to him, though. He's not so crazy about me.”

“Why?”

The waitress came by again. Theresa declined a drink order. She didn't feel bad about occupying a table without buying anything—they were the only people in the lounge. A hushed quiet had descended with the attorneys all in their sessions. She still itched to go check on Rachael but fought it. She had seen William leave the floor. Rachael worked right around the corner, in full view of others. Don't panic.

“He thinks I exaggerated probable cause to get an arrest warrant on that guy who killed the pizza-delivery man. Then the judge looked at him cross-eyed, and I guess it hurt his feelings. Don't know why he fussed—the judge gave us the warrant and the guy confessed, so it's all water under the Hope Memorial Bridge.”

“You took a chance.”

“Every day is a chance.”

“Where is he today? Morgan?”

“I don't know. I could only do so much in a morning, cuz. I wanted to get over here as soon as I could to tell Rachael to clean out her locker.”

“That's going to be easier said than done.”

“No surprise there. She's as stubborn as you are. Look at it this way: As soon as I get his record unsealed, I'm sure the hotel will find a way to fire him. That will at least get him partially out of Rachael's life.”

“They can't fire him if he wasn't convicted, can they?” Theresa asked.

“As I said, they'd find a way. Keeping someone with that record on staff would be too big a liability.”

“And Rachael will believe that we ruined this kid's life over a charge that hasn't even been proved, and she'll never speak to me again. Plus, wouldn't you get in trouble for using your authority to examine sealed records?”

“If there hadn't been two murders in this hotel, yes. But we're checking criminal histories on every employee as part of the investigation. So we can protest to Rachael, truthfully, that it's not our fault.”

“As soon as the record is unsealed.”

“Yes. Until then, okay—I can't really inform the hotel. If this kid or his family really protested, it would get sticky for me.”

“Should we tell Neil and Powell?”

“Neil?” Frank asked. “If it were just Marie Corrigan, I would say yes. But this kid killed a teenage girl, probably for turning him down. He might have killed Marie Corrigan for the same reason, but Bruce Raffel? What possible connection could he have to Bruce Raffel? There's no reason for him to have a grudge against lawyers, when they're the ones who saved his ass. Again, let's get the records unsealed and then let Kelly and Powell draw their own conclusions.”

“So in the meantime I need to warn my daughter off a boy I think she really likes.” Theresa resumed chewing one of her thumbnails. “This is going to take some finesse.”

“Oh, yeah. And that's your middle name.”

She got to her feet, feeling considerably older than she had a half hour previously. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. And thanks, Frank—thanks a lot.”

He rose as well, acknowledging what she'd said with only a bobbing nod. He would do anything for Rachael, she knew, especially since Theresa had split from her husband. But if anyone had less finesse than she did, it was Frank. She had to keep him from trying to order his niece around, or the girl would only become more intractable.

And somehow she expected that “intractable” would be putting it mildly. Rachael had battled Theresa's overprotectiveness for years. This wouldn't be only one more skirmish—more like all-out warfare.

Frank went back to work, promising to get in touch with the detective who'd investigated the death of Jenna Simone. Perhaps, he pointed out as they waited by the elevator bank, there was a valid reason the kid got off. Maybe he really didn't do it.

“Sure,” Theresa said with controlled despair, “maybe there's a perfectly rational explanation for why he was found next to her body with her blood on his hands.”

“Yeah.” Frank pressed the “down” button. “Maybe.”

She left him there and proceeded to the front desk, each step taking longer than it should. The thirty or so feet to the marble counter seemed to have tripled. She did not see Rachael.
Please,
she begged the angels,
please don't let her be waiting for William on the tower observation deck, fifty-two floors above the earth.

Behind the desk stood the skinny black girl she'd met the day before—Lorraine.

Upon request, however, Lorraine produced Rachael with a speed that had Theresa melting in gratitude. She'd merely been in the ladies' room. Since the front-desk area seemed well populated, Theresa asked only that Rachael remain there until Theresa could collect her at the end of her shift. No delivering things to rooms, no leaving the lobby for any reason.

“Whatever. I hardly ever do anyway, unless someone drops off flowers or something. I think I'm safe, Mom. I'm not a lawyer.”

“No one's safe at the moment. Just promise me, okay—”

A firm hand grasped her elbow, and a harried-looking Neil Kelly asked if she wanted to come back to the crime scene. The body snatchers had arrived for the corpse.

She went with him, giving only a backward glance to her daughter. Rachael watched them, suspicious. Children knew when their parents were holding back, and Rachael could sometimes read Theresa as easily as if she were a fast-food menu.

“You all right?” Neil Kelly asked once the elevator doors had closed.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just tired.”

“I knew it,” Powell said as Theresa helped the two body snatchers, one as tall and muscular as the other was short and undernourished, bundle Bruce Raffel into a white plastic body bag. “I figured these shysters would be into something kinky.”

“Only Bruce.” Theresa taped the carpeting underneath where the body had lain. “There's no reason to think Marie had any unusual habits.”

“But she dated him, so it follows. It's a power thing, I'm telling you. Dominating in the courtroom, dominating in the bedroom. She wouldn't give up any details about how Raffel liked it?”

“I didn't ask.”

“We'll get subpoenas—for her, the partners of both victims, assistants, paralegals.”

The idea pained Theresa. Bad enough she'd told them about Sonia and Bruce, though Sonia would expect that. She stopped taping the carpeting that had been underneath Bruce Raffel's body to ask, “Do you have to?”

Neil Kelly looked at her with a touch of pity. “Two bodies piled up, and this woman knew both of them. She may be able to connect the dots for us. How much should we worry about people's feelings? Especially since they're the same people who are going to say we didn't solve these murders because we don't like them?”

“You're going to subpoena her to compel testimony about a casual hookup that occurred two or three years before the crime. I'm glad I don't have your job.” Theresa could imagine few things more depressing than listening to endless rationalizations of how these strangers were perfectly okay with such an empty emotional life that mindless pairings became an acceptable substitute. Poor Sonia. But then Neil Kelly had probably heard much more depressing stories than that, and there were worse factors than mindless. After discussing it further, he and Powell decided, with obvious disappointment, that they'd never get a judge to sign off.

Surely cops were no strangers to the lifestyle themselves, when out with cop groupies and other hangers-on. Lots of late nights, unpredictable locations … She thought of her cousin. Would Frank …?

Hell, Frank would probably lead by example. Her cousin needed something real in his life. Theresa had been half hoping that something romantic would develop between him and his smart, attractive partner ever since they'd been assigned to work together, but nothing had—so far. Maybe Frank knew better than to get involved with a co-worker. More likely Angela knew better than to get involved with Frank.