Hades (11 page)

“Must be why we get along so well,” Abby said. “We’ve got so much in common.”

“With a few differences,” Justin said.

“A few.”

He reached out, took hold of both her hands. She relaxed at his touch, then tensed a bit when she realized he wasn’t holding her strictly for affection. His hands felt for her forearms, and his thumbs pressed down lightly just above her wrists. She tried pulling back, but he held tight.

“I want you to relax,” he told her. “And I want to ask you a few questions.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she nodded.

“Did you kill Evan?” The question was casual, as if being thrown out in cocktail party conversation.

“Jay, what are you—?”

“Answer me, please. Did you kill Evan?”

“No.”

“Did Dave Kelley?”

“I don’t know.”

“Take a guess.”

“Will you let go of me, please?”

“No. Take a guess. Did Kelley murder Evan?”

“No.”

“Did you know that Kelley had a stun gun?”

“What?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t actually know what a stun gun is, but, yes, I know he had one.”

“How?”

“Because he talked about it a couple of times. And he showed it to me. But it was before—”

“Before what? Before you began sleeping with him?”

She sighed. “Yes.”

“How did it come up in conversation?”

“Oh, god, I have no idea. I think we’d been having some problems with animals or something—you know, digging up plants or doing something with the compost heap at the back of the property, I’m not sure.”

“And?”

“And Dave said something about how he liked to take care of whatever they were, those big things with masks and ringed tails.”

“Raccoons.”

“Yes. Dave said that he had a stun gun. He said it was fun to use it on the raccoons.”

“He had a strange idea of fun.”

“Yes. He used it in front of us once, me and Evan. He showed us how it worked.”

“Did
you
think it was fun?”

“No.” She looked directly in Justin’s eyes now, not flinching. “Dave could be extremely cruel sometimes.” He met her stare. Finally she turned her head away and said, “Jay, what does this have to do . . . Oh my god . . . those burns. Those burns on Evan’s body.”

“Yes. It looks like they were from Kelley’s stun gun.”

“Oh my god.”

“Do you still think he couldn’t have done it?”

Now there was a real hesitation. This wasn’t defiance, this was confusion, maybe even a touch of panic. “I don’t know.”

“Did you ever tell anyone you wanted Kelley to kill Evan?”

“For god’s sake! No!”

“Even joking?”

“No!”

“Was Evan gay?”

“What?!” He had pushed her over the edge. Abby tried to stand up and jerk her hands away, but he refused to let go. He pulled her back down beside him, waited until she stopped resisting.

“Was he bi? Did Evan have homosexual affairs?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“So you think it’s impossible?”

“Jay, I’m starting to think that nothing’s impossible. How can I know if Evan was doing something he didn’t want me to know about?”

“Guess.”

She pursed her lips and composed herself. “My husband was many things, but I’m fairly sure that gay was not one of them.”

“Do you think you would know if Evan was having an affair?”

“Yes.”

“Would he have told you?”

She shook her head. “Not in so many words. But he would have let me know, dropped some not-so-subtle hints. He derived a strange kind of pleasure from things like that.”

“You handled it differently?”

This time she nodded. “I don’t particularly like to go out of my way to hurt people.”

“So you never told Evan about your affairs.”

“No.”

“Did he know?”

She didn’t answer right away. Then slowly, she said, “I think that two people who know each other well always know when secrets are being kept. They may not acknowledge them, and they may not know the specifics, but they know.”

“Did he know about me? About you and me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“How about you and Kelley. Did he know about that?”

Again, she took a long time before answering. Then: “I think he might have, yes.”

“But you don’t know it for a fact?”

“No. But I would say that he did.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure. Just . . . things he said. His tone. I overheard him while he was talking on the phone once . . . I wasn’t even sure he was talking about me, but I think he knew.”

“Abby, why did you say you think Kelley didn’t kill Evan?”

“Because he’s not smart enough.”

“It doesn’t take a lot of brains to kill somebody.”

“Okay, he’s not tough enough.”

“He acts tough.”

“You pegged it. It’s an act. He can torture animals. People are different. They can fight back.”

“They’ve got a witness who says Kelley told people you asked him to kill Evan.”

She looked genuinely shocked. “That can’t be! I would never— It’s a lie! What witness?”

“I don’t know; they didn’t say. But they’ve got a pretty strong case against Kelley, at least that’s what it sounds like. It’s possible he’ll roll and peg you as the one who planned the murder. That might get him murder two, or at least take the death penalty off the table.”

Now Abby turned a shade paler. Not completely white, but a definite change in pallor. “But it’s not true.”

“A lot’s going to depend on his lawyer. And how willing he is to deal.”

Abigail’s breathing came a little heavier now, a bit faster. She seemed to want to say something but suddenly didn’t have the strength to say it.

“So who
is
tough enough to have killed Evan?” Justin asked quietly.

“You are,” she said.

“Who else?”

“I am.”

“You’re not helping your cause,” he said.

“H. R. is.”

“Evan’s father?” When Abby nodded, Justin said, “Do you think he did this?”

“No. But is he capable of it? Yes. If he had to. You didn’t ask me who did it. You asked me who was capable of doing it.”

Justin suddenly remembered the folded piece of paper in his pocket. He fished it out and unfolded it. Mike Haversham had gotten the info Justin had wanted. Ellis St. John had rented a car on Thursday afternoon, the day he disappeared and the night Evan Harmon was killed. Haversham had gotten the make—a blue Mustang convertible—and the license plate number. Justin made a mental note to thank Haversham when William Holden wasn’t around. He reached for Abby’s wrists again.

“Is Ellis St. John capable of murder?” he asked her.

“Oh god, no.”

“Why not?”

“He’s just”—she was unable to come up with the right words—“he’s just not. Why would you even ask about him?”

“Because he’s missing.”

She looked confused. “Missing? You mean he’s run away?”

“Or someone’s taken him away. I haven’t been able to find him.”

“Does that have something to do with Evan?”

“I don’t know. I think it might.”

They were both silent for a moment. Justin knew that Holden wouldn’t give him much more time.

“Abby, is there anything you know about Evan’s murder? Anything you’re not telling me?” he asked.

“No.”

“If there is, tell me now.”

“There isn’t. I don’t know a thing.”

Now he slid his hands off her forearms, and her arms fell to her sides. Abigail swallowed. A hard swallow. “Do you want to know anything about Kelley?” she asked quietly. “I mean, about me and Kelley?”

“No.” And when she looked at him curiously, he said, “That’s personal. That can wait.”

“This is business?”

“This is business.”

“I think I’m going to need some help here, Jay.”

“I think you are.”

“Will you help me?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it, and I don’t know anything about it.”

Again, he didn’t respond, sat stoically, not dismissing her claim, not embracing it. Just wondering if he could believe the woman standing next to him. And what the ramifications were if he decided he could.

Abby cocked her head, spoke as if she weren’t the one whose life was on the line, as if she was genuinely curious about his decision, as if whatever he decided would tell her what she wanted to know about him. “Will you help me?”

“I’ll find out what happened. Whatever it is, whoever it is, as long as you understand that.”

“I understand,” Abigail Harmon said. “Business, not personal.”

“No,” Justin Westwood told her. “This one’s personal, too.”

12

Li Ling was naked.

And she was always happy when she was naked.

Having no clothes on was freeing to her. It was like shedding an outer skin. Like discarding some final form of repression and restraint. Being unclothed was exhilarating to her.

Togo also wore no clothes. He was lying next to her on the bed, his perfect body half visible, half hidden by the tangled sheets. They had made love three times, and she knew she had exhausted him. Drained him. Even astonished him, after all this time. She was not drained, though, not yet. She watched him sleep, gently put her hand over his heart, felt his chest move up and down. She traced a silver-painted nail across his chest, shuddering with delight as she felt his smooth skin and the tautness of his muscles. She moved her hand between her own legs. Watching Togo sleep, she pleasured herself. Her expression didn’t change. She barely moved, but she came quickly and suddenly and whatever tension remained in her body and her mind was now gone.

Ling swung her legs out of bed and in one motion was standing. She enjoyed the feeling of the rough carpet on her bare feet, took a moment to spread her toes and rub them against the coarse fiber. She walked across the room to where the man was sprawled. He, too, was naked but he was not feeling any pleasure. Ling didn’t even know whether or not, at this point, he was even feeling pain. He was probably beyond feeling anything.

She nudged him with one toe, and his body moved ever so slightly. She stood above him, put her bare foot on his neck. She stayed still, feeling the faint pulse from his neck vibrate against her sole. The vibration seemed to pump life into her body. Her touch seemed to stir him, too; his eyes fluttered but she couldn’t tell if he could see her. She hoped so.

She bent over, her foot pressing down a little harder on the neck, the pulse feeling stronger against her skin, and she jabbed her finger downward, one quick movement, and then the pulse was gone. She straightened up slowly, luxuriously, as if coming out of a bubble bath, enjoying the way her spine curved upward, one vertebra at a time until she was upright and rigid. She jostled the man with her toes, but this time there was no movement, no fluttering of the eyes.

The man’s name had been Ronald LaSalle. It was a meaningless name to her, a meaningless life. She did not know why his words had been important nor did she care. She cared only that he had talked, as she knew he would. And that he had told the truth, which there was no doubt he had. He had, very quickly, told them what they had been required to find out. There had been no need to put him through the agony he had endured before he died.

But sometimes, Ling understood, one did not do things strictly from need.

And with that, she smiled and went back to the bed. She stood on the mattress, her weight barely making an indentation, and this time she put her foot on Togo’s neck. When his eyes slowly opened, he saw her standing above him in the position of power and dominance. He did not change his expression, but she saw that he instantly grew hard.

“We have time to make love one more time,” she told him. She nodded toward the body of Ronald LaSalle. “And then we must finish our job.”

His head moved, a slight nod, she could feel the movement under her foot. She clenched it slightly, gripping his neck with her toes, and she wondered when the day would come when Togo, too, would be as helpless and powerless as the dead man on the other side of the room.

She watched as he finally smiled up at her. She smiled, too, and then she dropped down next to him, straddled him, clenched her legs against his sides as tightly as she could squeeze. She leaned over, her bare breasts lightly grazing his smooth chest.

They made love once again while she thought of life, and the joy it brought, and of death, and the exquisite pleasures that could bring as well.

And she thought of the fact that because of what this man, Ronald LaSalle, had told them, she and Togo now had more work to do.

And sometimes work could be the best thing of all.

13

At 9 P.M., Justin was slouched in his living room on Division Street. The news vans and reporters had disappeared, as had a quarter of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two bottles of Pete’s Wicked Ale. The reporters had given up and stopped loitering around his property about forty-five minutes earlier. The JD and brew were still available. Justin was trying to decide now whether or not to go for a third bottle of Pete’s.

He’d been online and seen the way Evan’s murder was being treated, so he was prepared for the onslaught of publicity that was sure to break the next morning. AOL news, running a story from the Associated Press, was playing it up big. The assumption was that Abigail had set up her two lovers to murder her husband, and that was made clear by the headline: threesome not enough for millionaire murderess. The story went on to detail her affair with Kelley: how he had been hired as a contractor to redo part of the Harmon mansion—that was clearly the official description of the home from now on, “the Harmon mansion”—and how Abby had gradually succumbed to Kelley’s charms. Justin learned details he had not been privy to, some relevant to the case against Kelley and Abby, some not. Kelley had worked on the house for the better part of a year. The job was supposed to take four months but had stretched to twelve. Abby was receiving credit for the extension; the story said that Evan had wanted Kelley to stop working, but that his wife kept finding more and more for him to do. The AP made it sound as if the extra work was sexual. Justin supposed that was possible, but he also knew that contractors had a way of overstaying their welcome. It was their nature. Start one job, get money up front, get partway through the work, take on another job with more money up front, spend less and less time finishing up the original job as the back-end money becomes less and less important. He dismissed the idea of Abby keeping Kelley around for sexual purposes. It didn’t make sense. If she wanted to have an affair, she wouldn’t want him hanging around her home. She’d want Kelley close by but separate—just the way she’d had with him.

Justin realized he’d mentally put their relationship in the past tense.

Well, he thought, a murder indictment does tend to put a damper on relationships.

Still, the connection between the affair and Kelley’s work at the house didn’t ring true. Abby had never seemed vindictive toward Evan; she did not seem anxious to spend his money or in any way financially punish him. And knowing Abby the way he did, she did not seem the type to go out of her way so someone like Kelley should make money off her husband. It just wasn’t the way her mind operated. He’d be on his own when it came to business. Of course, Justin did have to consider that it was possible he didn’t really know how her mind operated. If she’d been playing him all this time, manipulating him toward his complicity in this scheme, then all bets were out the window. But he didn’t really believe that. He had never thought of himself as all that easy to manipulate. And he didn’t think Abby could have faked some of the things he took for real: the fun, the passion, the intimacy. Even the bitchiness. He thought she’d revealed an awful lot of herself if she was merely acting.

One of the things that came up in the online article and that Silverbush had also mentioned was something Justin could not dismiss: Kelley had been responsible for installing a new security system in the Harmons’ house. It was an extremely complicated system. It was run by computer, and it could be disabled from Harmon’s desktop computer in his den; but, if someone knew how, it could also be disabled via an outside computer. Kelley did have that knowledge. He would know how to knock out the system and how to erase any photos and records from the hard drive. Justin learned from the article that it had been determined that the system had not been disabled from inside the Harmon house, it had been done from the outside. Kelley’s laptop had been impounded, but there was no word yet if there was a link between it and taking the system down. Justin figured if that link was established, it would be a matter of only minutes before the plea came.

The most damaging evidence was the stun gun. It was found in David Kelley’s garage. Silverbush and Holden gave out no statement about having received a tip. The discovery was being credited only to superb police work on the part of Holden and his team.

As compared to the work done by Justin Westwood.

The take on Justin was devastating. He was having an affair with the widow Harmon; he clearly must have known about her involvement both with Kelley and with the murder; the police were moments away from linking him to the crime. In the meantime, he’d been suspended from the force. He was the sad cop with the tragic past who’d obviously been taken in by a coldhearted siren. But his heart had to be equally cold to have gone along with the brutal scheme.

There was a statement from H. R. Harmon saying that he hoped and prayed his daughter-in-law hadn’t done this terrible thing, but he would not be surprised to learn that she had. He said that his son had talked to him about her adultery, that it had broken both their hearts. Evan had not divorced her because he loved her. H. R. Harmon said that he, too, loved his son’s wife . . . but he wasn’t feeling love right now. He was feeling only the anguish of loss.

Justin decided to go for the third bottle of beer.

Standing in the kitchen, he suddenly felt incredibly weary. Holding the cold beer in one hand, he leaned down, put his other hand on the stove for support, suddenly jumped up, swearing. He stared at the tiny blister that was already forming on his palm, swore again, and turned off the knob for the right front burner. He’d made himself an omelet and, once again, had forgotten to turn the damn electric burner off. He suddenly missed Abby, wished she were there to put her lips to his hand, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Or possibly ever again.

Justin took a deep breath, shook his head to clear it, went back to the living room with his beer. When he’d nearly drained it—it hadn’t taken more than a few gulps—he had an idea. He considered it a moment, playing it out in his head to see just how crazy it was. He decided it
was
crazy—but that it would also work. So he picked up the phone and dialed. His father answered the phone with a neutral “hello,” and when Justin matched it, his father said, “I was just going to call you.”

“Does that mean Ronald has shown up?”

“In a way,” his father said.

“You want to explain that?”

“He’s dead. The police found his body.”

“Jesus Christ. Where?”

“
Near Warwick, by Green Airport.
”

“By Rocky Point?”

“Yes.”

“Off Tidewater Drive?”

“Yes.” This time, the word was drawn out and there was a strong sense of wonder as well as annoyance in Jonathan Westwood’s voice.

“
Are you sure?”

“How could you possibly know that?”

Justin didn’t answer. He just said again, “Dad, are you sure that’s where he was found?”

“Yes. I just got off the phone with Victoria. Billy DiPezio was at the house to tell her in person. He might still be there.”

“LaSalle was murdered?”

“From what I was told, yes.”

“How?”

“Justin, I don’t know. It wasn’t really appropriate to—”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll talk to Billy and get the details.”

Justin said nothing for a quite a while after that. But that didn’t mean his brain wasn’t racing. There was an old construction site off Tidewater Drive, close to the Providence River. It had been abandoned probably thirty years ago and was one of the few blights on the landscape in that area. But the property, still referred to as Drogan’s lot—Drogan being the developer who had gone out of business long ago—wasn’t just an empty lot with no past. It had been a longtime dumping ground for mob hits. Several bodies had been found there in years past, most connected in one way or another to New England organized crime. But what the hell could that mean? Ronald LaSalle was hardly the kind of suit to be taken out by the mob. He was a meek, conservative money guy. It made no sense. What the hell could Ronald have been into to deserve a fate like this?

“Are you still there?” his father asked.

“Still here.”

“I . . .” His father took a long time before finishing his sentence. “I need to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“We’d like you to come up here. We’d like you to find out what happened.”

“Of course. I’ll do anything you want. Billy’s very good at this, though.”

“Yes. But . . . in a way, this is family. If you had heard Victoria—”

“Dad, when you said ‘we,’ did that mean you and Mom?”

“It meant Victoria, too.”

“Did she say that specifically? Just now?”

“Yes. She asked me to ask you.”

“I’ll be up tomorrow.”

“Can you do that? I thought you were too busy.”

“Turns out I’ve got some free time on my hands. It’s why I was calling you—to say I was coming up. I don’t know how long I can stay, but let me see what I can do.”

There was no thank-you, no expression of gratitude from Jonathan Westwood, just another lengthy silence, then: “I’ll tell your mother to expect you for lunch tomorrow.”

Before Jonathan could hang up, Justin mumbled, “Dad.” He waited, not exactly sure how to proceed, then he took the last swig of beer and said, “You might also want to tell her not to read the papers tomorrow. Or at least not to believe everything she reads.”

“I’ll tell her,” Justin’s father said. “And I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Justin half smiled at the receiver he was left holding, then he placed it back in the cradle, thinking it wasn’t always such a bad thing to have a father who didn’t ask questions.

Ronald LaSalle, he thought. Murdered. Body dumped amid the rusted remains in Drogan’s.

What the hell could this mean? What the hell was going on?

He didn’t know how much time he could spend away from East End Harbor, not with what he’d promised Abby. And not with the fact that he needed to clear his own name. But he had to go up to Providence. He needed to see if his newly devised scheme would work, and he had to try to help Vicky. He could still see, all too clearly, the expression on her face when Alicia had been buried. He didn’t want to see the new sadness that would envelop her now, didn’t know if he could bear it. But he knew he had to. Providence had, for so much of his youth, been a shelter for him. Then it had become an inferno of pain and death. Lately he had come to grips with his past, had been able to dip in and not be overwhelmed by his memories and his loss. But now there was new pain to deal with. New loss. And he knew he had to go home.

Justin glanced down as he felt a throbbing in his hand. He wondered if he should put some cream on his blister, maybe a Band-Aid, then he thought,
Fuck it.
His thoughts turned next to one more bottle of beer. He decided against that, too. Then he looked at the half-full bottle sitting on the table next to him.

The bourbon was a different story.