The Abortionist's Daughter (23 page)

Around four he woke up. Stiff and achy, he climbed the stairs and slipped into bed beside Leigh, but couldn’t fall back asleep. He feared that this case would drag on forever, another black mark on the police department. He racked his brain. An intruder? No evidence. Jack Fries? Tight alibi. The anti-abortionists? Of course, but who? Without more, it was like finding a needle in the haystack, there were so many of them.

Then suddenly, for no apparent reason, he recalled the meth dealer that the Branson boy had mentioned. He’d talked to Narcotics back in January, but Narcotics had no record of the man, and Ernie had let the matter slide. Now he realized that had been a mistake. The man might have been using an alias. Maybe he’d been over at Diana’s house that night, demanding money, and dropped a glove on the way out.

It was a long shot, but what else was he going to do?

Two rooms away electronic music shattered the dark: five a.m., time for his daughter’s two-hour grooming routine. Ernie rolled over and covered his head with his pillow. If only he could sleep until seven, he thought, then surely he would break the case.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

——————

WHILE ERNIE LAY
in bed wondering how he was going to salvage the case, Frank himself lay in bed drafting his letter of resignation. It had taken him a month, but he’d finally accepted what was now so obvious: that what mattered was clearing his name, even if it meant revealing where he’d gone that night. At five-thirty he got up and, after making a cup of espresso, sat down with his laptop and began to write.

This letter will serve to inform you of my resignation from the district attorney’s office, effective immediately.

Rage
was too weak a word to describe how he’d felt after seeing the online pictures of his daughter. But even as he confronted his wife by the side of the pool, even as the bitter, blame-soaked words spilled from his mouth, Frank knew he was taking it out on the wrong person. Looking back on it, he rued the fact that his only good decision that night—to leave the house before worse things were said—was the very reason why his wife was now dead. Had he stayed, she would be alive today.

Grimly he thought of how clear things could be, in hindsight.

The obstruction of justice was regrettable but necessary.

After leaving the house—and his wife, wet and dripping and stunned by his accusations—Frank made one quick stop at a travel agency. Then, with snow pelting his windshield, he headed up into the canyon. The main road had enough traffic to keep the snow from sticking, but the side road had a foot of untouched powder and his car immediately began snaking from side to side. Engaging the four-wheel drive, he gripped the wheel and slowly made his way up a series of steep, exaggerated hairpin turns. Finally the road leveled out into a high country basin, and as he coasted silently along, he thought how beautiful and appropriately terrible it all looked: dark and snowy and cold; a place for wolves, for predators.

He drove on. In 4.2 miles he came to Edgar Love’s mailbox. There he pulled into a small driveway and parked between a pickup truck and a giant SUV. Outside it must have been ten degrees colder than in town. A path had been shoveled from the driveway to the house. Golden light shone from the windows.

Frank zipped his jacket and turned up his collar and stepped out of his car. He had been up here before and knew the property. Edgar Love’s house was built from salvaged wood and glass, and looked like it had evolved over time, with rooms added on every which way. Solar heating panels rose ominously from the roof. Tonight a child-size plastic shovel lay abandoned on the walkway. Frank stuck it into the snowbank, then trudged up the steps and knocked on the door.

In seconds he found himself face to face with Soren Love (née Hildebrand, age thirty-five, one previous marriage, no priors). She was a small wispy woman, dressed tonight in a loose denim workshirt over a pair of magenta tights, her light brown hair messily knotted up with a pair of chopsticks. She did not seem surprised to find a stranger at her door and, assuming he was stuck, asked if he needed a phone.

Frank told her no, he was not stuck; he was here to see her husband. Immediately her demeanor changed.

“At six-fifteen on a Tuesday night? I don’t remember you calling.”

“I didn’t call,” said Frank. From upstairs came the high-pitched sound of vocalized artillery.

“Who is it, Soren?” A man had materialized at the base of a wrought-iron spiral staircase, upstage left.

“Mr. Love,” said Frank. “Good evening.” He knew he did not need to introduce himself; most people in this town knew their prosecutors.

“Let him in, Soren,” said Edgar Love.

“We’re about to eat, Ed,” Soren pointed out.

“Then invite him to dinner,” said Edgar quietly.

Soren looked irritated but told Frank to take off his shoes. Frank obeyed, neatly aligning them with a dozen other pairs against the wall. He glanced about. The house had an artsy feel, with chiseled beams and a stone floor with random mosaic inlays. On the wall by the door hung an ethereal tangle of blown glass threads, red and blue and purple. Risky art with a child around, Frank thought.

“Soren works with glass,” Edgar explained as he descended the last three steps. He was a slight man, clean-shaven, with short brown hair and funny elfin ears. He wore a black turtleneck with the sleeves pushed up and loose khaki pants, and he was barefoot. “That piece there has a remote lighting system.”

“Impressive,” said Frank.

There was a brief silence while Frank and Edgar assessed the sculpture. Then Edgar said, “Sor?” kind of flicking his glance upward, and Soren looked at him in astonishment; they had a deal going here, Frank could tell, and Edgar was breaking it somehow, but Soren must have decided not to escalate the issue. She squeezed past him and climbed the stairs.

Edgar headed into the kitchen. “You’re nuts to drive in this weather,” he remarked over his shoulder. “Watch your step. Another piece by Soren.” He indicated a large, red, somewhat drunkenly shaped plate hanging on the wall. Frank followed him past the kitchen into a glassed-in seating area filled with plants and graced by a tall pyramid-shaped fountain made from slabs of blue slate. A small Christmas tree sat on a table in the corner, lit up with tiny white lights. Flute music played in the background, and loaves of bread sat cooling on the counter, and a large cast-iron pot simmered on the stove. “I trust you’ve got four-wheel drive.”

He sat down on a small sofa and gestured for Frank to do the same, but Frank leaned against the counter that separated the kitchen from the living area.

“Obviously we don’t need any introduction,” he told Edgar, “although you must be wondering why I’m here.”

Edgar waited—well coached not to volunteer anything, Frank noticed.

“I wanted to talk to you about something I happened to come across online this afternoon,” he said. “I think you might know what I’m talking about.”

Edgar smiled. “I run an online hardwood business,” he said. “Am I correct in assuming this has to do with tropical hardwoods?”

Frank said, “It does not.”

“How odd,” said Edgar Love. “I have heard—although I can’t verify it—that the Justice Department has been investigating the industry for price fixing. In which case it might not surprise me to be questioned about certain conversations I did or did not have at certain points in time. Assuming you people work together,” he added. “Possibly not a fair assumption?”

“I’m not here to talk to you about meetings or conversations you might have had with other wholesalers.”

Edgar slapped his thighs definitively. “Well then! If you’re not here to discuss business, then I suggest you leave before the snow gets any worse.”

“Oh, I’m here to discuss business,” said Frank, “just not the business you think.”

Edgar asked what business that might be, and Frank told him. Edgar smiled at his hands. Then he rose from the sofa and went into the kitchen area. He filled a teakettle from a water cooler. He put the kettle on the stove and used a match to light the gas flame. Then he opened a drawer, took out a tin box, and set two mugs on the counter.

“I get my tea via mail order,” Edgar remarked. “There are so many more varieties, and it’s much better quality. Not that I’m a snob. Now this”—he held up the tin—“
this
is green tea.” He pried off the lid and took out what looked like a bonbon, artfully wrapped in white paper. “If you like a somewhat grassy flavor, you will like this.”

“We’ve seen your photos,” said Frank.

Edgar unwrapped one of the lumps and sniffed it. “Though it’s something of an acquired taste,” he went on. “Soren, for instance, does not like it.”

“Not just the legitimate ones,” said Frank. “The others too. Did you think we wouldn’t know what link to click on?”

“Funny you should come up here by yourself,” remarked Edgar. “Wouldn’t you want to bring someone else from your office?”

“I’m not here for the reason you think I’m here,” said Frank.

Edgar dropped the half-dome of pressed tea into a small iron teapot. “The thing about green tea is, you cannot let it steep more than three minutes or it becomes bitter,” he warned. “A lot of people make that mistake. They think that the longer you steep it, the better the flavor.”

“You posted the wrong photo, pal.”

“But!” Edgar held up his finger. “What most people don’t know is that you can rebrew the same tea several times. One of these nuggets makes three pots of tea.”

“Do you get their legal names, or pseudonyms?”

Edgar fussed crumbs off the counter before turning to face Frank. “What are you getting at, Frank? I have other things I could be doing tonight. I have a son upstairs. I have books to read. I have a wife to fuck. Help me out here.”

“You posted my daughter,” said Frank.

“How old is your daughter?”

“Nineteen.”

“Of age, then.”

“Not when the picture was taken. You’re looking at twenty-four years in federal prison, Edgar.”

The teakettle whistled, and Edgar turned the burner off. He waited for the boiling to subside, then poured water into the pot. “See how the leaves uncurl, how they writhe about? The Chinese call this a state of agony. I find that quite poetic, don’t you?” With a clink he set the cover on the teapot, draped it with a small white towel, and upended a small sand-filled timer. “Shall we?”

Frank reached into his breast pocket and took out the oblong envelope he’d picked up at the travel agency an hour ago. He set it on the counter, next to the teapot.

“Going somewhere?” asked Edgar.

Frank imagined an X-Acto knife: how it would feel, making that first decisive cut into a man’s chest.

“Take my daughter off the Web site,” he said, “and the tickets are yours.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re welcome to call your attorney. Maybe he can explain it better than I. Ever heard of a Judge Robie, down in Denver?”

“A good man,” said Edgar.

“And very loath to accept a plea in these kinds of cases.”

Edgar removed the tea basket from the pot and set it, steaming, on a small plate.

“Look, Frank. I’ve got a kid upstairs with a fever of a hundred and two. I appreciate the work you guys are doing, but you have the wrong person.”

“I don’t think so,” said Frank, and he pulled out another piece of paper, this one a printout of Megan with Edgar’s domain at the top. Edgar glanced at it briefly. He opened a cupboard and began searching for something.

“One-way tickets,” said Frank. “Three of them. Wherever you want. Just take my daughter off your site.”

“And then what?”

“I put the case on the back burner.”

“No deal,” said Edgar, “unless you close the case.”

Frank shook his head. “Back burner’s the best I can do. I can’t tell the feds how to run their investigation.”

“This looks very much like blackmail,” said Edgar. “Is that your policy at the DA’s office these days?”

Frank shrugged. “Take it or leave it, Edgar. It’s up to you. Oh, did I mention that Judge Robie has twin daughters? Freshmen in high school?”

“Photogenic?” Edgar winked, then rolled his eyes. “Oh, lighten up, Frank, it’s a joke. But tell me. Why should I trust you? Who says you’re going to hold up your end of the deal?”

“Sometimes you’ve just got to make that leap of faith.”

“Your case is full of shit,” said Edgar.

“Want to test it out? Fine with me. No, thank you,” he said as Edgar moved a mug toward him. “Too late in the day.”

From upstairs came the sound of feet slapping across the floor, followed by sustained shrieking. Frank glanced at the ceiling. “Sounds like he’s not so sick anymore. Ready to travel, even.”

Edgar stirred his tea methodically, the spoon tinkling against the glass. Frank waited. He was used to this. Silence never bothered him. He could wait all night, if he needed to.

“Fine,” Edgar finally said. He reached for the tickets, but Frank picked them up first.

“Take her off now,” said Frank, slipping the tickets back into his breast pocket. “While I watch.”

Edgar turned and padded into a small room off the kitchen. Frank followed. The room was set up with a desk and a computer and a couple of file cabinets. On the screen was a child’s computer game, fish chasing fish chasing fish.

Edgar sat down at the computer. Frank watched as a series of images crossed the screen. When Megan’s came up, he turned away.

“Same as the printout?” asked Edgar.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Edgar made a few keystrokes.

“She’s gone,” he said.

“Let me see,” said Frank. Edgar moved aside, and Frank leaned over the keyboard and began a new search on Edgar’s Web site. He tried it again. He tried it a third time. Then he stood up and took the tickets out of his pocket and handed them to Edgar.

“You realize that the image has probably been downloaded by any number of people,” Edgar said. “It might even have made its way onto any number of other Web sites. Cyberspace is pretty huge.”

“But there’s nothing I can do about that, is there?” said Frank. “This I can do. Just remember. If she ever pops up on your site again, we’ll find you.”