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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

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BOOK: The Last Victim
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Bridget Corrigan wouldn’t be taken down on the roadside by his sniper’s bullet. That wasn’t how he wanted to paint her.
Her hands on the steering wheel, Bridget watched the road ahead. She knew this area.
She also knew her assistant pretty well. At the moment, Shelley seemed a bit too quiet and serious. She’d taken a few more phone calls while Bridget drove, but didn’t strike up any conversations with her. Though she’d waved away Bridget’s apology earlier, she was probably still a little hurt. And Bridget still regretted getting snippy with her.
She wasn’t used to being someone’s boss. Most of the time, she treated Shelley like a coworker and friend, not an assistant. Bridget wasn’t much for barking orders at people. “You’re like Martha Stewart in reverse,” Shelley once told her. “You’re just so mellow, considerate, and easy to work with. I think you’ll have to start taking some bitch pills if you expect to survive in the political arena.”
That had been a couple of months ago, when Bridget had just started campaigning for her brother. Maybe she’d changed since then. Maybe she was indeed becoming a bitch.
Shelley glanced out the passenger window and remained silent while Bridget navigated through traffic in the center of town.
“This is Main Street here,” Bridget said finally. “There’s a Les Schwab Tire place about three stoplights down—on the left. Could you do me a huge favor and call them? See if we can get a new tire in a half hour. We shouldn’t put more than fifty miles on this spare. Then, if you don’t mind, Shell, you can take in the car while I’m at this thing. And when they’re done, you can swing by and pick me up.” Bridget glanced at Shelley. “If you’re still talking to me, that is. Again, Shell, I’m sorry to snap at you earlier—”
Shelley cut her off. “Oh, please, get over it.” She pulled out her cell phone. “Go on a guilt trip with someone else. My feelings aren’t hurt. You were right. It’s none of my business what we’re doing here.” She dialed a few numbers, then asked for the number for Les Schwab Tire Service on Main Street in Longview.
Bridget pulled into the parking lot of a pristine-looking red-brick estate with white shutters. Amid the neatly trimmed hedges by the house was a sign:
SHOREWOOD FUNERAL HOME
.
Shelley clicked off the phone and announced that the tire service center could accommodate them.
“Thanks, Shell,” Bridget said, stopping in front of the funeral home’s main entrance. With a sigh, she shut off the ignition, then handed the keys to her. “I don’t know why I’ve been so secretive about this. It’s just that Brad didn’t want me rescheduling a lot of commitments for this personal thing—so I’m doing it on the sly.”
“Who died?” Shelley asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“An old high school friend,” Bridget said, soberly. “I haven’t seen her in twenty years.”
“She was pretty young,” Shelley remarked.
Bridget gazed out at the funeral home. “She was living in Seattle. Apparently, a few days ago, she went to the beach in the middle of the night, sat down on a park bench, and shot herself in the head.”
Bridget leaned over the sink in the ladies’ room at Shorewood Funeral Home. She’d gone directly to the lavatory without stopping by the viewing area. She knew where the restrooms were in Shorewood Funeral Home. She’d been there before.
Her hands still felt grimy from changing the tire. The Wet Ones hadn’t done the trick. She needed soap and water. She also needed to be alone for a minute.
As she stood in front of the mirror, drying off her hands with a paper towel, Bridget started to cry. She couldn’t help it. Olivia’s death had brought back all these old feelings.
She and Brad had grown up not far from here, in the little town of McLaren. Bridget knew this funeral home, because her mother’s wake had been held here. With the flood of memories, Bridget should have expected a few tears to escape.
Olivia had been in the same circle of friends with Brad and Bridget during high school. She’d been the party girl, the daring one. Bridget lost track of how many times she’d seen Olivia drunk. She’d even held back Olivia’s hair for her on one occasion while Olivia threw up. But the very next day, Olivia—as always—was ready to party again. She was crude and funny and uninhibited.
It was hard to imagine Olivia committing suicide.
Then again, Bridget hadn’t seen Olivia since the summer after graduation. The Corrigans moved sixty miles away to Portland—just after Bridget and Brad had started college. They’d always been reluctant to return. They’d lost touch—almost on purpose—with their former high school friends.
Bridget understood why Brad didn’t want to go to this memorial—and why he didn’t want her attending it. “What’s past is past,” he’d said. “I’ve put that chapter of our lives behind me. You should too.”
Still, she’d needed to come. And now that she was here, Bridget wondered if any of the old gang would show up.
She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. After fixing her makeup, Bridget stepped out of the lavatory and started toward the wake area.
The viewing room was full of floral arrangements, strategically placed around the Mission-style furniture. The polished mahogany casket at the end of the room was closed. Understandable, since Olivia was supposed to have shot herself in the head. About forty people stood around the room.
Bridget spotted Olivia’s mother, a slightly dowdy, dishwater blonde who showed all the traces of having been very pretty once. Bridget remembered Mrs. Rankin just turning that corner to frumpiness when Olivia was in high school—around the time Mr. Rankin packed his bags and disappeared. In Olivia’s obituary, Mr. Rankin wasn’t even mentioned.
Mrs. Rankin caught her staring. “Bridget?” she said. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she gave her a pale smile. “Bridget Corrigan?”
Bridget stepped up to Olivia’s mother and shook her hand. Then she placed her other hand over Mrs. Rankin’s.
“That’s the double handshake.”
Brad had taught her a few weeks ago how to greet different people at rallies.
“The double handshake is for when you want to show some extra warmth or empathy. . . .”
At the time, Bridget thought her brother was a major-league political phony for teaching her these gestures. But now they came to her naturally. She wondered if perhaps they’d been there all along—and Brad had just labeled them—or had she become a bit of a political phony herself?
“I was so sorry to hear about Olivia, Mrs. Rankin,” she whispered.
“Thank you,” Olivia’s mother said, with a raspy voice. “You know, I recognized you the minute I saw you, Bridget. Whenever you’re on TV, I tell my friend Rosemary, ‘That’s Bridget and Brad Corrigan. They were good friends of my Olivia.’ ” She glanced around. “Where’s Brad?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Brad couldn’t make it,” Bridget said. “But he sends his condolences. We’re both so sorry about—what happened.”
Mrs. Rankin sighed, and her eyes welled up with tears. “I—I simply don’t understand. I was just talking with Olivia a little over a week ago, and she said everything was fine. It doesn’t make any sense that she’d take her own life.”
Bridget squeezed Mrs. Rankin’s hand. What do you tell a mother who has just lost her only child? Why didn’t Brad ever tutor her in that?
Then someone else approached them. “Thank you for coming all this way, Bridget,” Mrs. Rankin said.
Bridget nodded and stepped aside. As she turned away, she suddenly locked eyes with a tall man she didn’t recognize. He was handsome, with a pale complexion and black hair. He wore a blue blazer, black tie, and khakis. He smiled—just slightly. Had she seen him somewhere before? Did she know him? His direct gaze and that smile seemed almost impertinent. Bridget numbly stared back at the man and watched his smile fade.
“Bridget Corrigan?” she heard someone say.
She turned and saw someone who was undeniably familiar. “Fuller Sterns?”
But Fuller Sterns’s goofy-cute face was about the only thing that looked the same from when they were in high school together. His long, wild, uncombed brown hair was now trimmed short around the sides and back—and receding badly. Fuller had been a loud, husky teenager—with a voracious appetite for beer, junk food, pot, and pranks. Now he was a pale, overweight man in a dark gray suit.
“Bridget,” he said, approaching her. “Christ, you look exactly the same!”
“You too!” she lied. She hoped he was lying as well, because she’d spent her high school years feeling plain, unattractive, and robbed-in-the-womb of good looks by her twin brother.
She gave Fuller an awkward hug, then pulled back to look at him. “Thanks for telling me about Olivia. I got your phone message just yesterday. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to call you back.”
“I left a message with Brad too. I didn’t hear back from him either.”
She gave him a tight smile. “So—how’ve you been? Are you married?”
Fuller rolled his eyes. “Twice burned, and up to my neck in alimony payments. You ain’t gonna see me head down the aisle again soon, no, thanks. I’m in finance, and the ex-wives spend it almost quicker than I can make it. Otherwise, I’m hangin’ in there.”
Grinning, Fuller looked her up and down. “I don’t have to ask about you. I live across the river in Vancouver and get the Portland TV stations. You and Brad are always on the news. Sorry I can’t vote for him, but tell that son of a bitch he has a fan in Washington State. He isn’t here, is he?”
“No, Brad couldn’t make it. Has anyone else from our graduating class shown up?”
Fuller frowned. “If they have, they’re invisible, because I haven’t seen them. And I’ve been here since this thing started.” He shrugged. “Then again, it’s been twenty years since graduation. A lot of people have moved away, lost touch.”
“Had you seen Olivia recently?” she asked.
Fuller quickly shook his head. “No, I—huh, no. I haven’t seen Olivia in years.”
“But you knew that she’d died,” Bridget said.
“Yeah, well, I—I just caught the obituary, that’s all.”
Eyes narrowed, Bridget stared at Fuller. He seemed to be lying—or at least, concealing something.
“I thought I should come here, y’know?” he said. “Pay my respects and all that. What about you? Did you talk with Olivia recently?”
Bridget sighed. “No, I’m one of those people from twenty years ago who moved away and lost touch.” She worked up a smile. “But it’s good to see you again, Fuller.”
He let out a weak chuckle. “Huh, how about that twin brother of yours? I should have known he’d end up running for senator—or even president. He was like that in high school too.” Fuller reached into his suit jacket and handed her a business card. “Listen, tell Brad to give me a call, okay? I tried to get a hold of him last week. Left a couple of messages, but I guess he’s such a big shot now, he won’t return my calls.”
“Well, you know, Brad’s really busy. He—”
“Hey, I’m just giving you shit,” Fuller interrupted. “But seriously, tell him to call me. Okay? The number’s there on the card.”
Bridget didn’t ask him why he wanted to get in touch with Brad. Ever since junior high school, people had used Bridget to get to her popular brother—in one way or another. Along with people giving her messages to pass on to Brad, there were the ones—both guys and girls—who pretended to like her so they could get closer to Brad. She didn’t exactly like it, but she’d been accustomed to it. She’d learned long ago not to care, and rarely questioned what people wanted from her brother.
“I’ll pass this on to him,” Bridget said, slipping Fuller’s business card into her purse.
Past Fuller’s left shoulder, she noticed the man with black hair staring at her again. But as soon as her eyes met his, he looked away.
She touched Fuller’s arm. “Behind you to your left—around two o’clock—there’s a good-looking man with black hair. He’s standing by the lamp with the Tiffany shade. Do you know him?”
Fuller casually looked over his shoulder. “The dude with the blue blazer?”
“Yes,” Bridget whispered. “He keeps staring at me like he knows me.”
“Huh, he looks vaguely familiar, but I’ll be damned if I know who the hell he is.”
Bridget caught the stranger stealing another glance her way. Maybe he was a reporter, or he recognized her from TV. Was he a friend of Olivia’s?
Fuller glanced at his wristwatch. “Well, hey, I’m gonna split. I need to get back to work.” He kissed Bridget on the cheek. “Listen, I mean it, tell Brad to call me. I really want to talk with him. Okay?”
She nodded. “Sure thing, Fuller. Good to see you again.”
He patted her arm, then headed for the door.
Bridget turned toward the dark-haired stranger again. But he wasn’t there. She glanced around the room. She didn’t see him at all. It was as if he’d vanished.
Yet, somehow, Bridget still felt his eyes on her.
“I can’t believe you went to her wake,” Brad said. “You know how much I didn’t want you attending that thing.”
“Are you sending me to bed without any supper?” Bridget asked wryly.
Brad was barbecuing steaks on the grill in the backyard. Bridget stood over the picnic table, fixing skewers of cut vegetables. It was starting to get dark—and chilly—earlier now, so Bridget was wearing a sweater.
Brad and his wife Janice’s house was a big, four-bedroom, beige brick monstrosity built in the early nineties. The backyard was surprisingly small. A couple of Japanese maple trees and a spruce interrupted the well-manicured green carpet of a lawn. On one end stood a swing set and monkey bars for Brad and Janice’s daughter, Emma. Brad had also installed a small court area with a stand and a basketball hoop. He, David, and Eric had just played a round of HORSE before he started grilling the steaks.
Janice was in the kitchen, and the boys were now in the den, watching a new DVD on the big-screen TV with their grandfather. It was one of Bradley Senior’s favorite movies, and their birthday present to him,
The Magnificent Seven
. Bridget had picked it out and written the card for the boys to sign:
To Our Magnificent 77-year-old Grandfather . . .
The windows to the den were open, and Bridget could hear Elmer Bernstein’s familiar theme music stirring.
She set the vegetable skewers beside the steaks on the grill.
“So—are you going to call Fuller or what?” she asked her brother.
“I’m going to ‘what,’ ” Brad grunted, watching his steaks. He turned one over with his tongs. “I have no desire to get back in touch with Fuller Sterns—or anyone from that group.”
Bridget shrugged. “Well, he seemed pretty adamant about wanting you to call. He mentioned it twice.”
“I don’t care if he repeated it like a broken record, I’m not calling him.” Brad sighed, then flipped over another steak. “Did you talk to anyone else at this thing?”
“Just Mrs. Rankin.” Bridget winced a bit. “Actually, I noticed one guy who kept looking at me. I don’t know who he was. He might have been a reporter or a friend of Olivia’s. He seemed to recognize me.”
“Swell,” Brad grumbled. “Jesus, Brigg, I asked you as a favor not to go. I don’t understand why it was so necessary for you to attend this thing.”
“For the exact same reason you were so determined
not
to go,” she replied. “I want to put that chapter of our lives behind me, Brad. I thought it might bring me some closure. You and I may not talk about what happened at Gorman’s Creek, but that doesn’t mean I—”
“Hey,” he hissed. He gave a cautious glance at the kitchen window. “Keep it down.”
Bridget shot a look toward the kitchen, where Brad’s wife was mashing the potatoes. She turned to her brother. “You mean, Janice doesn’t know?”
Brad shook his head. “And I don’t see any reason why she should ever know.” He frowned at her. “Don’t tell me you spilled your guts to Gerry.”
“Of course I did,” she whispered. “I told him before we got married. He was going to be my husband, for God’s sake. I didn’t want to keep any secrets from him.”
“Well, that’s terrific,” Brad grumbled. “Now Gerry has probably spilled everything to that bimbo he’s shacked up with.”
Bridget turned the vegetable skewers again. Her face felt hot as she stood near the grill. “I sincerely doubt it,” she said. “Gerry would have nothing to gain by sharing it with Leslie. I told him fourteen years ago, and neither one of us has mentioned it since.”
Maybe Gerry had forgotten about it. But she certainly hadn’t. And she knew her brother thought about the incident at Gorman’s Creek as much as she had in the last twenty years. But Brad refused to talk about it.
Even a couple of days ago, when they’d discussed Olivia’s death and the memorial service, they’d spoken in an unacknowledged code, never referring to Gorman’s Creek or what had happened there. But Olivia had been part of it—along with Fuller Sterns.
Bridget stared at her brother. He was clenching his jaw.
“More than anything right now,” she said steadily, “you’d like me to shut up about Fuller, Olivia, and the whole damn mess, wouldn’t you?”
With the barbecue fork, Brad took the steaks off the grill, then transferred them to a plate. “Yes,” he whispered, not looking at her. “Yes, please.”
Bridget watched him carry the plate of steaks into the kitchen.
“Oh, those look great,” she heard Janice say.
“Are you Mommy’s little helper with the potatoes?” Brad was asking his daughter. “Hey, guys!” he called to her sons. “There are a couple of root beers with your names on them in the refrigerator. Take an intermission. Dinner’s on.”
He was such a terrific uncle to her boys. Hell, Brad had rescued all of them. Only seven months ago, Bridget had thought her life was over.
She remembered how it had come as a total shock to her. If anyone would have asked at the time, she would have told them that she and Gerry had a good, solid marriage. When Gerry had made reservations for them at Giorgio’s on a Tuesday night, Bridget had thought he was trying to put a little romance back in the marriage.
Things between them had become somewhat routine—but comfortable. With David and Eric in school, she’d taken a part-time job teaching Spanish at a girls’ private academy. She loved teaching. A lot of the girls regarded her as a smart, older-sister type, and they often went to her for advice. Bridget liked to think that she made a difference in a few young lives. The job wasn’t overwhelming at all, only twenty hours a week. Gerry, on the other hand, was a workaholic. She’d become accustomed to him frequently staying late at the office and traveling so much. Gerry was getting a spare tire around his middle, and she was plucking her gray hairs. But they were still an attractive couple, and the sex was good—whenever they had time for it.
For their night at Giorgio’s, Bridget wore a sexy red off-the-shoulder dress Gerry liked. And Gerry looked dapper in his gray Armani suit.
He broke the news to her over the appetizers: “I’m sorry. I can’t keep this up. I—I don’t want to be married anymore.”
It took Bridget a few moments to realize he was serious.
“I’ve told you about Leslie, the paralegal at work,” he continued. “But I didn’t tell you that she and her boyfriend broke up months ago. She and I found out that we had a lot in common. I realized you and I have been—just
coasting
for the last couple of years. I sort of stopped
feeling
. But Leslie brought the
feelings
back in me. We didn’t mean for anything to happen—”
“Stop,” Bridget whispered. She grabbed her purse and abruptly pulled away from the table, spilling her glass of wine. She ran to the ladies’ room and ducked into one of the stalls. Bridget thought she was going to vomit, but she fought it.
She lowered the toilet seat lid and sat down. She couldn’t stop trembling. Then, all of a sudden, Bridget fell on her knees, lifted the lid, and threw up.
She couldn’t believe he’d sprung this news on her at Giorgio’s. He must have figured she wouldn’t make a scene. They’d just ordered their entrees, for God’s sake. She was destroyed. Did he really expect her to sit there and calmly eat dinner with him?
Bridget went directly from the ladies’ room to the parking lot and climbed into Gerry’s merlot-colored Mercedes. He loved that damn car. Bridget rarely drove it, but had the extra set of keys in her purse just the same. For a few moments, she thought about driving herself off a cliff in it. If not for her sons, she might have.
Instead, she drove home, carefully parked the merlot Mercedes in the driveway, then used her key to leave a long, deep, solitary scratch-mark from the driver’s door to the front bumper. It felt good—for a moment. Then she just felt silly and stupid.
She told David and Eric their father was called away on a business meeting. Good thing too, because Gerry never came home that night.
Bridget didn’t want to be one of those scorned wives who constantly complained to her kids about what a shit their father was. She kept thinking about the scratch-mark she’d left on Gerry’s Mercedes, and told herself not to act impulsively, because she could cause some irreparable damage.
Gerry telephoned her the next day—from his office. They set up a time to sit down together with the boys and break the news to them. “Well, what exactly are you going to tell them?” Bridget asked pointedly. “I should warn you, if you start talking about your ‘feeling’ issues—or lack thereof—I may throw up again. I mean, what is it you want, Gerry? A trial separation, some time alone, or—”
“It’s like I told you last night,” he interrupted. “I don’t want to be married anymore. I think we should get a divorce.”
When he said those words, it was like a sudden kick in her stomach. Bridget couldn’t get her breath, and all the while, she thought about how stupid she was. She’d let him sucker punch her twice—with the same line.
He doesn’t want to be married anymore.
That was exactly how he worded it to David and Eric in the living room three nights later.
To Bridget’s amazement—and Gerry’s utter humiliation—the boys didn’t seem too disturbed by the announcement that their dad was moving out. David and Eric were accustomed to his being away quite often. Their uncle Brad was more like a father to them than Gerry was. Twelve-year-old David’s main concerns were staying on at the same school, keeping his room in this house, and remaining close to his friends.
Gerry assured his sons that their routines wouldn’t be changed at all. In fact, he’d probably see
more
of them than before.
This, of course, was a total lie.
Bridget and the boys didn’t see more of Gerry. In fact, they hardly saw him at all. But Bridget was constantly in touch with Gerry’s attorney—the best at his firm. Gerry and his lawyer had brilliantly seen to it that he paid only the bare minimum requirements of child support and alimony. Bridget’s attorney suspected that for the past few weeks, Gerry had been secretly transferring a sizable portion of savings into Leslie’s bank account. And now, Bridget couldn’t touch it. This was just the start of a long, messy, bitter divorce.
Bridget got the house, her lovely gray cedar shaker with the white trim—and the lovely mortgage. Her oldest son was traumatized by the mere prospect of moving. And because David was upset about it, Eric became upset too. But they couldn’t afford to stay on there. Hell, Bridget wondered how she could even pay her attorney fees.
She went to the principal of the private girls’ school where she taught, and asked to be hired full-time. She loved the work and figured there was no harm in asking for a salary increase as well. She hadn’t figured on being told that they had to lay her off next year due to budget cuts.
So—Bridget started the summer applying for unemployment, talking to a real estate agent about selling the house, enduring a double dose of resentment from her sons for even
thinking
of such a thing, and developing a sudden backache, which her doctor said was due to stress.
That was when Brad said he needed her help. At the time, he was trailing significantly behind Jim Foley at the polls. Brad was ambitious and driven—with a genuine desire to help the poor and middle class. It didn’t hurt that he was young and very handsome. Some members of the press likened him to Robert Kennedy. Of course, none of those press members were associated with the two local TV stations or the major newspaper Jim Foley had in his pocket.
On a Thursday in early July, Brad was scheduled to speak at an outdoor rally. They expected about five thousand people to attend—a high number of them Spanish-speaking. Oregon’s Latino community had more than doubled in the last two years, and a majority of them were in lower income brackets. These were Brad’s voters. He needed his sister to translate for him at the rally.
Brad’s wife, Janice, had lent her a very elegant, lightweight Donna Karan suit for the rally. The creamy yellow color complemented Bridget’s auburn hair. She’d worn the suit before—at a dinner for Gerry’s firm—and she’d gotten raves for it.
But at the last minute, Bridget changed into a pink oxford blouse and khaki skirt that she’d worn her last day of teaching. Instead of wearing Janice’s white gold and sapphire broach on the lapel of the Donna Karan jacket, Bridget put a
CORRIGAN FOR OREGON
button on her shirt, and she rolled up her sleeves.
“
That’s
what you’re wearing?” Brad asked, when she climbed into the back of his limo with him. He’d had his driver swing by and pick her up for the rally. “What happened to Janice’s yellow outfit?”
Brad was dressed in a dark blue Brooks Brothers suit, a gorgeous, muted blue and black tie, and a crisp white shirt. Her brother was an impeccable dresser. He looked very handsome with his early summer tan and his thick brown hair slicked back.
Bridget shrugged. “Well, I figured, this is a rally—not tea at Buckingham Palace. It’s informal. These are ‘regular folks.’ I need these people to like me and relate to me—so they’ll listen to me.”
“Huh, why not just wear an old T-shirt and cutoffs?” he said sarcastically. “Jesus. . . .”
BOOK: The Last Victim
13.09Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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