Derision (11 page)

I blink hard a couple of times, clearing my vision. “Yes. Put me through to him.” I glance at the digital clock on the nightstand: 5:25 a.m. A knot forms in my throat, dread prickling my skin immediately.

As I wait to be patched through, the clicking of the earpiece forces me out of bed, my annoyance bringing me fully awake. The press. A disgruntled neighbor. Kids pranking. Bates’ reputation has suffered during the trial, so I prepped him for the public backlash.

“Larkin,” he says, his weary voice coming through the line.

“What is it, Malcolm?”

“I need you to come to my house in Falls Church. I’m about to be arrested.”

My hand grips the handset as I pull it away and utter a harsh curse. With a deep inhale, I bring it back to my ear. “Don’t say anything. Don’t do anything.”

“I know,” he says, and he does. We’ve been through this before.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” I slam down the phone. “Fuck.”

Alexis is awake now, her arms wrapped around her knees as she watches me pace across the room, picking up clothes and dressing hurriedly.

“Find something decent to wear,” I say, buttoning my dress shirt. I snake my tie around my neck, forgoing tying it. “Now.”

She springs off the bed and grabs for any clothes she can find in the closet. “What’s wrong?”

When it comes to Malcolm Bates, what’s not wrong? I squeeze my eyes shut, angry with myself for thinking of my client with such contempt. But after nearly three months of working on one case—a rape case—I was relieved it was over.

“Bates,” I answer her, figuring that’s answer enough. “I need you to start a couple hours early. There’s a recorder in my briefcase, and I need you to take notes. Just—” I look at her, loathing that this is her introduction into her new position. “Let me know if anything becomes too much.”

Her head tilts a bit as she studies me, her gaze feeling intrusive in this small room. “All right,” she says.

I notify Jefferson to pick us up at the front of the hotel. I’m sure he’s not ecstatic over the early morning call, either, but that’s why he’s paid
very
nicely for his services.

He’s already waiting at the front as we exit, coffees to-go. Anticipating my needs; another reason why he’s paid so generously. Once he delivers us to my personal car, I give him a directive to take the rest of the day off. The less people involved, the less who have privileged information.

I try to prepare Alexis for what she might see or hear, though I doubt I’m doing any good. This is not how I planned her induction to go—being introduced to my world through the grime I have to shuffle.

I’m a difficult man. I have extreme, sexual preferences. But rape is not one of them. Only the lowest of filth gets a power trip from raping another human being. Power is to be obtained willingly—by earning it—not stripping it from another.

Which is why being Malcolm Bates’ lawyer is becoming increasingly challenging. The day I no longer trust in his innocence, is the day he not only needs to find new representation, but a new city.

Alexis sits in the passenger-seat, quietly thinking. Taking in the overcast morning with her cup of coffee warming her hands. I typically have Julia send over whichever paralegal or lawyer I see fit to meet with clients. Alexis was never one of them. Not because she’s incapable. Rather, because I sheltered her from the more difficult cases.

Also, I wasn’t sure I could concentrate on my clients with her so near.

This is her test as much as it is mine.

“Pull my laptop out and get familiar with his cases,” I say, veering onto the highway.

Falls Church is only about fifteen minutes from the Skylark, but we make it there in less than ten. Ten short minutes where I convince myself of my client’s innocence.

M
y weekends
normally pass in a blur of nothingness. There is no measure of time more precise than that of boredom. Like flipping the pages of a book, watching someone else’s life play out in rapid succession, it’s safe, and isolating.

And for the past three years of my life, I have done everything within my power to keep my world at a distance from my past.

Being with Chase—even for the short time that I have—has suspended my internal clock. Days feel like years, minutes like days, seconds like hours. I can’t accurately compare it to anything I’ve ever experienced, as I’ve never experienced anything or anyone like him before.

I’ve watched him at a distance for a year, as an observer, fantasizing. Longing. Desiring…but never once confusing my reality with expectation. He was just like a fictional character. I was under no delusion that I’d ever become a part of his reality.

The moment he touched me, I changed. There was no impact on him; I absorbed the shock. I’m also under no delusion that I am anything more to him than what he desires for me to be.

I am his object of derision.

I am his.

A belonging.

And the glimpses he gives me beneath his rigid exterior are enough to sustain me. Like last night. I’m as equally aroused by his brutal touch as I am by his tender caress. I crave his harsh declarations just as I desire to hear his whispered confessions.

If you’re to love someone, love them wholly. You can’t break them down into pieces. Compartmentalizing. Puzzling a person into the perfect, ideal someone. If I belong to Chase, then I belong to the monster as much as I do the man.

I’m just unsure of which one will finally break me.

I fiddle with the top button of my thin blouse, unaccustomed to wearing such revealing or expensive clothes. I know it’s expensive, because his tastes are extravagant. The car I’m in now is sleek and silver, and is probably worth more than I earn in two years. It soars over the road at a speed I’m sure is faster than it feels.

In the short time allotted to me, I’ve gone over Malcolm Bates’ case files, trying to memorize the details. Chase peeks over at me often, a deep crease between his brows. I’m not sure if he’s concerned about my ability to be his personal paralegal, or if it’s the nature of the cases he’s worried I won’t be able to handle.

He’s not wrong to question either.

As we pull up to an enormous house, the gate is open, squad cars blocking off the entrance. “I’m the doctor’s lawyer,” he says as an officer approaches the car. “This is my assistant.”

Chase hands the cop his driver’s license, earning a scowl from the young officer. The cop glances at it quickly before handing it back and waving us through.

“Follow my lead,” Chase says as he parks behind one of the squad cars. “They’re going to arrest him, so we need to get as much information and any and all clues to the evidence they have before then.”

Recorder in hand, I stuff my phone and the laptop into his briefcase, only taking a pad and pen with me. I finger the little bird pendant as I stare ahead, notepad tucked close to my chest, concentrating too hard on regulating my breathing.

Then the feel of Chase’s fingers clasping my chin speeds my already racing heart. He turns my face toward him as he leans over the console. “You’re mine. That means nothing can touch you. Not even this filth.”

His blue eyes blaze with the certainty of his words. I nod against his hold, and his fingers splay along my jaw, bringing me close enough to kiss.

“Later, I’m going to fuck anything that upsets you right out of your head,” he avows against my lips before tenderly touching his to mine, the contrast between his heated promise and gentle caress stealing my breath.

The whiplash spins my mind as I follow him past the open door into an elegant foyer. I need to focus, and yet all I can think about is the lingering wetness between my thighs. Only when I see the man who’s been splashed all over the Internet and TV seated at the bottom of the stairs, a cold blast knocks all enticing thoughts of Chase away.

Malcolm Bates is handsome. His gray-streaked hair is distinguished, accentuating his dark, clean-shaven features rather than aging him. He doesn’t look like a rapist—but as I know from experience, rapists don’t have a stereotypical profile.

I suppress a shudder as Chase reaches down to shake his hand. “Let’s find a private place to talk,” he says.

Malcolm nods, rising and leading us toward an office. A detective in a clichéd trench coat and scruffy beard eyes me before he motions a cop to stand guard at the door.

With shaky hands, I press Record on the device, then set it on the desk to prepare to take notes. So far, there doesn’t appear to be anything that stands out. This isn’t the crime scene, so why are they searching here?

“Keep your voice low,” Chase says to his client. “Tell me everything you know.”

Malcolm runs a hand through his disheveled hair, as if he’s been doing so all morning. “I don’t know anything,” he says, his voice rough, ragged. “I’ve been here all weekend. Haven’t had any company.”

Chase narrows his gaze. “No one has been here?”

The man throws up his hands. “I moved to fucking Falls Church to get away from the press hounding me, Larkin. For fuck’s sake, I just got done with a trial. Do you think I’m in the mood to date?”

The way he says it, with such disdain, triggers a detail I read in one of his first statements.
I hate the dating scene
.
That’s why I meet women online
.

Three victims were attacked right after he—allegedly—dropped them off at their homes after a date that was arranged through emails. The second two didn’t come forward until after the first was reported.

“Malcolm, the detectives are going to say you moved here to cull new victims away from the city,” Chase says evenly. He’s all hard logic. Not a hint of emotion in his tone. “I need the truth. We’ll figure out what they need to hear, but you know the deal. I get everything. Every. Single. Fucking. Detail up front.”

As Malcolm contemplates this, I jot down a note:
Culling victims through dating website. Does the new victim use the same site as the others?

“All right,” Malcolm says, exasperated. “I knew this girl. But only online,” he stresses. “I had plans to meet her. We hooked up through the fetish site, but it fell through. I backed out last night.” He shakes his head. “I wanted to celebrate, sure. But I decided against it at the last minute. I never hooked up with her. Next thing I know, the fucking cops are breaking down my door.”

I write quickly, getting down anything relevant, as Chase remains quiet. When I glance up, his stern features and hard glare on his client make me question if he believes Malcolm. Chase looks over at me, searching my face, as if I hold the answer.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay off that site?” Chase reprimands his client. “It’s not as anonymous as you think, Malcolm. You can’t chance it with the press.”

Malcolm’s features fall in defeat, but he says nothing.

The detective in the trench coat enters the office, breaking the silence. “Doctor Malcolm Bates, I have a warrant for your arrest.”

“Say nothing,” Chase reminds Malcolm. “I’ll meet you at the station.”

Malcolm assumes the position, placing his hands behind his back as the detective recites the Miranda rights and handcuffs him. I feel as if I’m in the middle of a bad cop show, but even in those, there’s at least some important information gleaned.

We’ve learned nothing here.

Once the detective places Malcolm in the custody of two officers who escort him outside the house, he turns toward Chase. “Processing here takes a few hours. We’ll call you when your client’s ready for questioning.”

With a smirk, Chase lowers his head to look down at the detective, his height towering over. “That’s fine. Take all the time you want. But in the meantime, I want access to all evidentiary discovery. Including the police report and witness statement.”

The detective cocks his head. “Sounds like a request for the ACA. Good luck.” He stalks off without another word.

I touch Chase’s arm, bringing his attention to me. “They don’t have a strong case yet,” I say, and he nods, catching on to the same thing as me.

“If they did, it wouldn’t be handed down to an Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney.” His slight smile reaches his eyes. “And at least we’re in another district and don’t have to battle Detective Quinn. We wouldn’t get anywhere if so. Come on,” he says, starting toward the foyer. “Let’s go hound the shit out of this green ACA.”

* * *

I
’ve seen violence before
. Depicted in images as I researched cases. The woman who filed spousal abuse on her husband. Her bruised face. Despondent, shadowed eyes that held so much pain. The man who was assaulted by a coworker. The chair that broke his arm. The claim that followed which showed the X-rays and hardship of his suffering.

I always viewed this violent world safely removed, however. Just a shade away from the victims. The pictures spread out before me now seem too close, too real. As if I can reach down and touch Samantha Dean.

The ligature marks wrapping her wrists make mine itch, and I rub my fingers over my skin, feeling the raised welts, the remnants of the chain that bound me the night before.

Although mine was accepted willingly, I can’t help feeling a connection to this victim on a deeper level that has nothing to do with last night. The fabric of time is slipping, and I’m struggling to stay in the moment.

Unlike the victim here, I don’t have visible proof of my scars. So they’re easily dismissed. Ignored. Forgotten. Proof, as I’ve come to learn, is all that matters. If you can’t prove it, then it never happened. I could’ve imagined the whole thing for all the world cares.

“The victim’s account of last night doesn’t match the accused’s MO,” Chase says as he flips the page in the report.

The ACA sitting at the table across from us leans forward, swiping a stray hair from her vision. “Then you admit your client has an MO.” She’s young, and her raised eyebrows give away too much of her thoughts, even though she’s doing a good job of that all on her own.

Chase isn’t fazed by her accusation. Instead, he continues to read the victim’s statement without any acknowledgment her way. “Accused, Miss Garcia. Doctor Bates has been accused three times and stood trial, all accounts inciting a specific routine.” He does look up once he’s finished with the report. “Or ritual, if you will. This, however, is a clear witch hunt. So now, every time a rape is reported anywhere within three counties, the Commonwealth is going to waste precious time by first harassing my client rather than conducting an investigation.” He crosses his arms. “Good to know.”

I’ve seen Chase in action before, during preliminaries and on news broadcasts, but I’ve never been this close to him while he’s in fighter mode. He exudes a dominance that ripples over my skin, heating my flesh. The woman across from him feels it, too. She touches her hair again and glances down, a clear sign she’s affected.

She’s as much out of her depth with him as I am.

After she clears her throat, she pushes another report across the table. “The scope of the warrant included Doctor Bates’ computer.”

“Oh, come on,” Chase says, his tone mocking. “How did you even get that pushed through? What judge did you stroke off?”

She blanches at his lewd allegation, and I can’t stop the smile that twists my lips.

“You know this will be thrown out,” Chase continues. “There was no probable cause for a search of this scope. So what else do you have?”

“The victim’s testimony should be enough, Mister Larkin,” she fires back. “I know you’re used to getting your way, but you won’t intimidate me. This is not a witch hunt. Malcolm Bates was the last interaction the victim had before she was attacked. In her own home. Both the victim’s and Bates’ metadata confirm they were in contact. And here,” she says, pointing to a bulletin point on the report. “You can read for yourself. The perpetrator used surgical gloves during the attack.” She tilts her head. “I know that you have many high profile clients, but maybe you should refresh yourself with the details of your own case. The MO of the previous victims all stated the perpetrator wore surgical gloves. Like a doctor. Like your client.”

For dramatic effect, she stands, collecting her laptop and folders. “And of course, there’s the evidence of the email the victim sent just prior to the attack.” She glances between us, smug. “The one containing the victim’s address as per their agreed ‘hook-up.’ I think we’re done.”

Before she marches off, I turn toward Chase and silently ask permission to address her. “Wait, Miss Garcia. I believe my assistant has something to add.”

I thought he’d want to know first, but I guess this is where the trust comes in. I suck in a breath, let it out slowly. “What about the time?” I ask.

She shakes her head, her dark hair slipping over her shoulder. “Can you be more specific?”

“The metadata, according to the report, states the victim sent the email at 10:15 p.m. But the distance between the victim’s house and Bates’ residence is calculated to be fifteen minutes. She claims she was attacked in her living room, while she was still on her laptop.” I nod, urging her to catch on. “Six minutes after the email was sent. And the metadata also confirms that Bates didn’t open the email until two minutes prior to the victim’s attack.”