The Last Victim (28 page)

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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

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“Fighting words from Jim Foley yesterday,” said the anchorman over footage of Foley still pontificating. “But his speech, so soon after the brutal, drug-related murders of Bridget Corrigan’s estranged husband, Gerard Hilliard, and his companion, Leslie Ackerman, drew sharp criticism all around the state—even from some Foley supporters.”
“I just think it’s in bad taste,” a heavyset woman with short blond hair told an interviewer on the street. “These people are in mourning. Foley crossed the line.”
Focused on the little TV, Cheryl slid a bit deeper into the water—so the bubbles were around her chin. Obviously, Jim Foley’s little speech yesterday had backfired. Once again, Brad and Bridget Corrigan came out smelling like a couple of roses.
The anchorman was talking about some informal viewer-call-in poll: “Sixty-eight percent of the callers felt Jim Foley’s remarks were inappropriate.
“However,” the anchorman said, with a dramatic pause, “startling new testimony from friends of Leslie Ackerman may have a devastating effect on the Corrigan camp. Here with the breaking news story is KBCQ Channel Eight News’ Vita Matthews.”
Cheryl sat up in the tub. She took another gulp of wine.
“Thank you, Don,” said the pretty reporter. She wore a yellow suit, which stood out against the night-shot of her in front of the Burnside Bridge and downtown Portland. “Many people feel Jim Foley’s attack yesterday on his political opponent, Brad Corrigan, was ill-timed and inappropriate,” she said into her handheld microphone. “
Ill-timed
, because Foley’s criticism came within days of Gerard Hilliard’s and Leslie Ackerman’s shocking murders.
Inappropriate
, because he seemed to imply there was a connection—possibly a
drug connection
—between Brad Corrigan and Gerard Hilliard, his twin sister’s estranged husband. But according to friends of the late Leslie Ackerman, there was indeed a
drug connection
—and something more—between Brad Corrigan and Ms. Ackerman.”
“Holy shit,” Cheryl murmured, gaping at the TV.
“Leslie and I knew each other for five years,” said a woman with her face in the shadows. Cheryl remembered her from a broadcast a few days ago. “I spoke with a longtime friend of Leslie Ackerman’s, who asked to remain anonymous,” the reporter chimed in, voice-over.
“I met Brad Corrigan about a year ago at one of Leslie’s parties. They’d been seeing each other for a while.”
“Are you saying Brad Corrigan and Leslie Ackerman were having a sexual relationship?” the reporter asked.
“Oh yeah.”
“Oh my God!” Cheryl said, laughing.
“Do you know if he ever used cocaine with Leslie Ackerman?” the reporter pressed.
“Oh yeah.” The woman in the shadows nodded. “The three of us did coke together in Leslie’s apartment once. He was into it. Anyway, he later introduced her to his brother-in-law, Gerry. And Gerry got Leslie a job at his law firm.”
“Ha!” Cheryl cried, reaching for her wineglass again. “Good luck worming your way out of this one, Brad.”
Suddenly, she heard a strange, grinding noise from downstairs. She clung to the side of the tub and listened intently. Was it the furnace starting up? The noise died after a moment.
She glanced back at the TV. Apparently, the reporter had introduced another one of Leslie Ackerman’s friends. This one was a slender, almost-pretty, bald man with a butterscotch complexion. A caption appeared on the screen:
NICO SELLERS, FRIEND TO LESLIE ACKERMAN
.
“I met Brad Corrigan at a small dinner party Leslie gave in her apartment, around Christmastime last year,” he said. “I’m not into drugs. But Leslie and some of her other friends were. At this party, Leslie, Brad Corrigan, and another friend of theirs slipped into the bedroom after dinner, and I know they did some cocaine in there.”
“How do you know?” the reporter asked.
“Because Leslie invited me to join them.”
Cheryl was toasting the TV with her wineglass when she heard another noise. It sounded like floorboards creaking in the hallway. Water sluiced from the tub as she leaned over the edge and tried to peer down the hall. She’d left the bathroom door open. She didn’t see anyone in the hall. She didn’t hear anything either—just the TV, and a steady drip from the faucet into the tub.
Cheryl settled back and looked at the television again.
“. . . how this will affect the voters is still up in the air,” the reporter was saying. “Back to you, Don.”
Then the anchorman returned to the screen. “Brad Corrigan was unavailable for comment. But a representative from the Corrigan-for-Oregon committee called the remarks by Ackerman’s friends ‘inaccurate and reckless.’ ” He paused. “In the Hawthorne District, a three-alarm fire . . .”
Cheryl saw a shadow sweep across the bathroom wall. She gasped, then realized it was from the candle flickering. Obviously, she was having a hard time relaxing. She blew out the candle on the edge of the tub.
The floorboards groaned again.
“Who’s there?” Cheryl called nervously.
“. . . flames swept through the warehouse . . .”
She wanted to turn off the TV, but didn’t dare touch it while still in the tub. Cheryl leaned over the edge again and took another look down the hallway. A shadow raced across the ceiling. Was someone in her bedroom?
She started to stand up in the tub, but the bubble bath salts had made it slippery. She grabbed a hold of the towel rack to keep from falling. A little water splashed over the side of the tub as she regained her footing.
“Shit,” she muttered, grabbing a towel with a shaky hand.
“. . . causing a three-mile back up on Interstate Five . . .”
Over the announcer’s voice, Cheryl heard the floorboards squeaking again. Panicked, she started to wrap the towel around her. She glimpsed something in the vanity mirror—a figure coming down the hall.
She swiveled around to see a short, muscular, balding man in her bathroom doorway.
Cheryl started to scream. But as she backed away, her feet slid out from under her. She slammed against the tiled wall, then toppled back in the tub. Water seemed to splash everywhere. She tried to catch her breath to scream.
“Shut up, bitch!” she heard the man growl. He stomped toward her.
Dazed, she tried to pull herself out of the tub. But her hand slipped against the slick, soapy edges.
He darted past her, and for a brief moment, she thought he might not hurt her.
Then Cheryl saw him pick up the little TV.
“No, no, wait!” she screamed. “God, no!”
“. . . check in with our meteorologist, Jason Palmer. Jason, looks like you’re bringing us some rain . . .”
There was a splash. Cheryl’s screams abruptly stopped.
The bathroom lights blinked on and off. And the only sound was a low, sizzling hiss.
“Brigg, we need to talk.”
“Have you talked to your wife yet?” Bridget said into the phone.
“Janice knows the whole story,” her brother replied.
“Janice knows you were screwing Leslie?”
“Brigg, it’s a lie. I never had anything going on with Leslie. I didn’t introduce her to Gerry. And outside of getting stoned every once in a while back in college, you know I’m not into drugs. What they said on TV is all bullshit.”
Bridget heard him take a deep breath on the other end of the line. “But there’s something I should have told you a while ago. We need to talk.”
With the cordless phone to her ear, she moved toward the family room. Through the picture window, she watched David and Eric passing around a football amid all the fallen leaves on the back lawn. Except for David occasionally calling out instructions to his little brother (“Go long!”), there wasn’t a lot of yelling or laughing. It was all very subdued. They’d just buried their father today.
They hadn’t seen the five o’clock news. They didn’t know what was being broadcast about their father—and their uncle.
“Well, after you talk to me and make me understand what this is all about,” Bridget said to her brother, “I hope you can talk to the boys. Explain it to them.”
“Why don’t you bring them over?” he asked.
“See you in a half hour,” she said.
The notion of eating home-delivered pizza—for about the fifth time in two weeks—and watching
The Guns of Navarone
with their grandfather sat just fine with David and Eric.
After their morning in mourning—which included a mass, a ceremony at the cemetery, and a buffet lunch their grandparents had hosted in a banquet room at the Portland Red Lion, watching an old action movie with their other grandfather and gorging on pizza was a relief. For Bridget, the ceremonies and commitments had become formal obligations that took precedence over her grief. She had to make sure the boys were dressed appropriately, that she was dressed appropriately, that they arrived at each location on time, and all the while, she had to act appropriately. Everyone was looking and judging—including members of the press—as well as friends of the slain
couple
. Maybe that was what funerals and all the formalities were about. The survivors were so busy going through the
appropriate
motions, there was no time to really reflect on their loss.
If she had a minute to think about anything at all, Bridget thought about Zach Matthias, and how he’d duped her. She kept replaying last night. She’d questioned Brad’s advice not to trust Zach. It had actually mattered to her that Zach got along well with her sons. And then, she’d spotted him with that skinny, red-haired weasel. She was such an idiot.
During the funeral mass, she had a couple of emotional moments. No one knew those were tears of anger and humiliation—and yes, grief. But she was thinking about Zach Matthias, not her estranged husband. Though considering how they both treated her, they were pretty much cut from the same cloth.
Zach was meeting with Cheryl Blume that afternoon. Bridget couldn’t stop him from going. She could only hope he would get the same chilly reception she’d gotten from Cheryl after phoning her last week.
She’d told Brad about Zach and his plans to interview Cheryl. Brad had merely shaken his head and rolled his eyes—as if he didn’t want to hear about it, and didn’t want to say,
I told you so.
Brad already had enough on his mind with Foley attacking the Corrigan family and their “drug connection” yesterday.
Then came the bombshell on the Channel 8 five o’clock news tonight. Within hours, all the other stations would be picking up the story about Brad Corrigan snorting cocaine and having sex with the woman who would ultimately contribute to the breakup of, not his marriage, but his sister’s.
Bridget was impatient to hear Brad’s explanation. She sat down with him on the sofa in his study. With Brad’s big, ornate, mahogany desk, fireplace, built-in bookshelves, and wooden blinds on the windows, the richly paneled office looked like it might have belonged to FDR. Their father had a hand in decorating it. The fax machine, computer, and printer almost seemed anachronistic amid all the thirties and forties art deco–style trimmings.
“I guess now we know what kind of ‘dirt’ Foley had on us,” Bridget said. “I can’t see it getting much
dirtier
—unless Stab-Me-in-the-Back Zach dug up something today.”
“You haven’t heard from him?” Brad asked. Crossing his legs, he propped one ankle on his other knee, then fluttered his foot nervously.
Bridget just sighed and shook her head.
“Well, the story on the news tonight was about ten percent true,” Brad said, frowning.
“Go ahead, I’m listening.”
“I met up with Leslie last Christmas, and she invited me to that dinner party they talked about,” he admitted.
“The party with the nose-candy for dessert.”
He nodded. “Only I didn’t participate. Everyone else did—including that guy they interviewed on TV, Mico or Nico or whatever his name was, Mr. I-Don’t-Do-Drugs. Christ, he was the worst, like a vacuum cleaner, a total cokehead—and obnoxious as hell. Actually, they all were obnoxious, but he could have taken home the prize—”
“All right, enough about him,” Bridget cut in. “What were you doing there?”
“That was the weekend after Christmas, when you, Gerry, and the boys went skiing at Timberline Lodge,” he said. “And I thought it was a good time to approach Leslie. I mean, you must remember, Leslie was already working at the firm at that time. The woman they interviewed on TV, the anonymous one, who was at the party—I think her name was Desiree—well, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Leslie Ackerman was working at the firm in September. I didn’t introduce her to Gerry. He already knew her. Gerry was already . . .” Brad hesitated.
“
Screwing her?
” Bridget finished for him. “And you knew?”
Brad nodded glumly. “I found out from someone at the firm. I asked Gerry if it was true, and he said no. But I knew he was lying. So that Friday when you guys took off on your ski trip, I went to Gerry’s firm and introduced myself to Leslie Ackerman. I got her to admit that she was indeed
involved
with Gerry. I thought I could somehow intervene, maybe make her realize she was destroying a family. I thought I was getting through to her, because she invited me over to her apartment to talk some more that evening. I told Janice where I was going—and why. Anyway, when I got to Leslie’s place, the party was going on. I tried to talk to her in private, but it just didn’t happen.”
“So last Christmas,
Janice
knew about Gerry and Leslie too,” Bridget said, vacantly staring down at the oriental carpet in her brother’s study.
“I asked for her advice.”
“But you didn’t tell me.”
“Brigg, I didn’t want to ruin your life,” he whispered. “I kept hoping Gerry would come to his senses and dump her. Then you wouldn’t ever need to know. I tried to talk with Leslie two more times that weekend, and it didn’t take. I tried talking to Gerry too, but he just kept denying it.”
What stunned Bridget most of all, oddly enough, was that her brother and Janice had known about the affair and kept it a secret from her. She wasn’t really angry. After all, Brad meant well. She was just thrown for a loop. Until now, she didn’t think Brad had any secrets from her. Apparently, he was very adept at keeping them to himself.
“Um, you’ll need proof,” she heard herself say.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
She sighed. “We need to get the employment records at Gerry’s firm to prove that this Desiree woman has her facts wrong about when Leslie started working there, and when she started . . .” Bridget paused and took a deep breath. “When she started sleeping with my husband. We have to discredit this woman. You should call your public relations team together, start on damage control immediately. You have to set the record straight here.”
“But I don’t want to embarrass you any further.”
She gave a forlorn little shrug. “It doesn’t matter anymore. We buried him today. I’d still like you to help me explain everything to David and Eric. They should hear it from us—and not on the school yard.” She shook her head. “But not tonight. It’s too soon. Let them watch their movie with Dad.”
He got to his feet. “So—you want to come to campaign headquarters with me and start gathering the troops?”
Bridget hung up the phone and waved Shelley into her office.
“We’re in luck,” she said, standing up behind her old, beat-up metal desk. “I just got off the horn with Doug Stutesman over at Gerry’s firm. He’s there working late. He always liked me, and was all apologies for missing the funeral today. Long story short, he has access to the personnel files and can get us Leslie’s employment record. He’ll make us a copy. He said he thinks Leslie was working there since
August
of last year, which makes the anonymous woman on TV even more of a liar. Anyway, we need to get someone over there pronto to pick up those records by eight tonight.”
Shelley nodded. “I’ll send Jeff.”
“Thanks, Shell.” She sat back down at her desk. “Are they still having their powwow down the hall?”
“Brad, Jay, and the P.R. guys? Yeah. I can hear them talking over each other in there. Looks like a long night ahead for them.”
“Well, I promise I won’t keep you here past eight. In the meantime, tell Jeff to ask for Doug Stutesman at the law offices, and when he gets back here he can deliver the papers to Brad in the boardroom.”
“Will do,” Shelley said.
She ducked back out to the main office, where three other staff members and two volunteers had come to work the phones. They were conducting impromptu surveys to get voters’ reactions to the new developments. Bridget was impressed at the way they’d answered the emergency call for help.
Wes Linderman, Foley’s spy, had shown up as well. Someone—not Bridget or Shelley—had made the mistake of calling him. Bridget sent him to Kinko’s to have a thousand more Corrigan-for-Oregon signs printed up. She’d figured that would keep him out of their hair most of the evening.
Bridget moved down the hall to the lunchroom, which tonight served as a conference room. She knocked on the door, then stuck her head in. “Brad? You got a minute?”
He stood up at one end of the lunch table, where Jay Corby, three other men, and one woman sat. All of them looked a little haggard, and dressed for a businessperson’s come-as-you-are party—except for Jay. As usual, the stocky forty-year-old was impeccably groomed, every blond hair in place. The table was littered with bottled water, a Big Gulp container, candy wrappers, memo pads, and one laptop computer—plugged in and running.
Brad stepped outside and shut the door behind him. “These people are driving me crazy,” he whispered. “What’s going on?”
“We’re getting a copy of Leslie’s employment record from the firm to show this Desiree woman doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Bridget told him. “Whoever clued you in about Gerry and Leslie in the first place, he might know Desiree—or other people at that party. You should get a hold of him. We’ll need someone else from that party to say you didn’t take any cocaine. We have to discredit this Nico—as well as Desiree.”
He nodded. “Kenny Langford is the one who told me about Gerry and Leslie. I’ll talk to him.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Jay is all hot on getting Janice to do some appearances with me. He thinks it’ll help. I don’t want to put any strain on her right now. She’s been through enough with Pop getting sick, Gerry’s death—and now this.”
Bridget shrugged. “Well, for once, I agree with Jay Corby. It’s not a bad idea—if Janice is up to it. Having her at your side would show stability—the happy, lovely wife, and a baby on the way. I agree with them.” She shrugged again. “I’d stand at your side, Brad, but I’m the idiot who didn’t even know her husband was snorting coke and cheating on her. You’re better off doing the rounds with Janice on this one.”
He let out a sad laugh. “Listen, you’ve been through enough today. Why don’t you go home?”
She glanced at her wristwatch. “The boys have about another hour and a half of
The Guns of Navarone
. I don’t want to bust that up. I can make myself useful here a bit longer.”
“Thanks, Brigg,” he said. Then he ducked back into the lunchroom.
Bridget headed toward her office again, then stopped in her tracks.
“Hi,” Zach said. He stood by Shelley’s desk with his jacket thrown over his shoulder.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I heard something on the radio on my way back from Eugene,” he said. “Something about a cocaine Christmas party. I swung by your place, and you weren’t home. So I figured you were here.”
“Well, you figured right. And we’re kind of busy.”
“Can I do anything to help?”
“Exactly who are you trying to help?” she asked.
He looked back at her as if she were crazy. “What do you mean?”

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