Ties That Bind (18 page)

“Ally?” Kate called as she pushed the door all the way open. It looked like a freight train had driven through the apartment at full throttle. The Van Gogh and Monet prints had been thrown to the floor, cracking the glass, the cushions on the sofa had been ripped to shreds, books littered the floor, and the bookshelf had been overturned.

Kate crossed the living room and walked down the hall to the bedroom, hoping that she would not run across Bennett’s body. The bedroom had suffered the same fate as the living room. Sheets and blankets were strewn across the floor and the mattress had been ripped open. Every drawer in the dresser had been pulled out and Bennett’s clothes had been tossed about.

After a brief look at the kitchen and bathroom, which had also been trashed, Kate left, pulling the door shut and wiping her prints from the knob. Then she drove to the parking lot of a nearby supermarket and phoned Amanda.

“What do you think happened?” Amanda asked after Kate told her about her interview with Joyce Hamada and her visit to Bennett’s apartment.

“I can’t begin to guess, but finding Bennett should be our chief priority.”

“If she can alibi Jon for the evening of Senator Travis’s murder I might be able to convince Tim Kerrigan to back off on those charges.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

“And I’ll call Sally Grace and see if she has an estimate of Travis’s time of death.”

“Okay. Phone me with it if you get one.”

“Will do. Where are you going to start looking?”

“I’ll hit the computer to see if Bennett has used a credit card recently and I’ll talk to people at her apartment complex. Maybe see if Hamada or that other woman knows if she’s working somewhere now that Exotic Escorts is on hiatus.”

“Sounds good.”

They rang off and Amanda thought about this new twist. Why had Bennett’s apartment been trashed? Bennett could be dead, or so scared that she’d run. And what if she was dead? Amanda hoped that they could find her, and that she was safe.

Amanda’s mother had died in childbirth, but she’d had one great parent and a carefree childhood. She always felt incredibly lucky about the breaks life had dealt her. Amanda shivered. Growing up with a sexual predator for a father, having to sell your body because it was the only way to get by. She thought about the psychological scars she carried from her one brief brush with depravity. What if every day of your life was like the moments she’d spent as a prisoner of the surgeon?

Amanda hoped that Ally had escaped the people who’d invaded her apartment and she hoped, for Jon’s sake, that Kate could find her. A call girl was not the greatest alibi her pimp could have, but it would be a lot better than what they had now.

“Take a seat, Mr. DA,” she said motioning toward a chair at the desk. Tim pulled it out and sat down. The desk was on the other side of the small room. He was glad to have the bed between them.

“What do you want?” Kerrigan asked.

“Getting right to the point, are we? Don’t you want to engage in a little foreplay first?”

Kerrigan did not answer.

“Does Cindy like foreplay?”

“Keep her out of it,” Kerrigan said angrily, rising to his feet. Ally showed him her .38.

“Sit,” she commanded. Tim hesitated, then sat back down.

“That’s right, Timmy. Be a good boy and do what you’re told and you won’t get hurt.”

Kerrigan’s fists knotted but he did not dare move. Ally placed the gun on the table beside her chair.

“I’ve been finding out all sorts of interesting things about you. I didn’t know that you were a big strong football hero,” she taunted. “You didn’t seem very strong the last time we were together.”

“There’s got to be a point to this, Ally. So why don’t you get to it. Is it money? Is that what you want?”

“Yeah, money. But I have other demands.”

“Such as?”

“I want you to dismiss the case against Jon Dupre.”

“That’s impossible.”

“But you’ll do it anyway if you want to hold on to your job, your family, and your reputation.”

“I couldn’t dismiss the charges even if I wanted to. Jack Stamm is the district attorney for the county. I just work for him. He’d dismiss the charges if I could give him a reason, but he’d overrule me if I tried to do it on my own.”

“Then give him a reason.”

“Like what?”

“Jon didn’t kill Senator Travis.”

“I don’t believe that for a second, but even if it was true there’s no question that he killed Wendell Hayes.”

“Tell Stamm that Jon killed Hayes in self-defense, like Amanda Jaffe said.”

“There’s absolutely no proof that Dupre was acting in self-defense. Were you in the courtroom when the jail guard testified?”

Ally nodded.

“Then you heard what he said.”

“He didn’t see everything.”

“Ally, there is nothing I can do for Jon Dupre.”

“Then I’ll destroy you.”

Kerrigan felt the fight go out of him. He hung his head.

“You want to know the truth? There’s not much to destroy. I’m a civil servant and an unfaithful husband.”

“If you’re looking for pity, forget it.” Ally stood up. “Just figure out how to get Jon out of jail. And figure out a way to get me fifty thousand dollars.” Kerrigan looked shocked. “And don’t waste your breath telling me you’re a poor civil servant. Your wife and your father are rich. Get them to give you the money or get it someplace else, but get it.”

Ally pulled a minicassette from her pocket. “Cheer up, Timmy. I give value for my money. You should know that.” She held up the cassette. “When I get the money, you get this. It’ll make your career.”

“What is that?”

“A recording of a conversation I taped at Senator Travis’s fund-raiser. It’s got some interesting information on it about the way the anti-cloning bill was killed in the Senate. You’ll be able to make headlines with this tape that will make everyone forget about Jon Dupre. See you soon.”

Ally held the gun on Kerrigan while she moved toward the door.

“How will I get in touch?” Tim asked.

“Don’t worry. I’ll call you.”

The door closed behind Ally. Tim didn’t move. The desk chair was uncomfortable but he didn’t notice. An image of a toppling house of cards flashed in his head.

The last time they had met in this motel room, Jasmine had asked him what he wanted her to do to him and he had told her that he wanted to be punished. It would have been more accurate to tell her that he
needed
to be punished, that he
deserved
to be punished.

Kerrigan closed his eyes and let his head fall back. He was a prosecutor. His job was to make certain that criminals suffered the consequences of their acts, but he had escaped the consequences for his worst act for so long that he’d deluded himself into believing that he would escape punishment forever.

On a wet and cold Thursday, a week and a half before the big game, Tim had escaped to a dark booth in a workingman’s bar off the interstate. The tavern was only three miles from campus but it catered to hard drinkers and had none of the ambience that attracted a college crowd. It was a place where the Pac-10s star running back could drink without being noticed.

By two in the morning, empty shot glasses were lined up in front of Tim on the scarred wood table. He’d made a solid dent in his sobriety, but he was no closer to solving his personal problems. Cindy was expecting him to marry her, but did he want to get married? He was young and he had his life ahead of him. How did he know that Cindy was The One? One thing he knew for certain
—
Cindy would be crushed if he broke off their engagement. But wouldn’t a momentary tragedy be better than a lifelong one?

It was well past the curfew set by the Oregon coach. If he was caught here, drunk or sober, Coach could suspend him. Tim looked around. The bar was emptying out and he still had not decided what he was going to do. Fresh air might help.

Tim pushed himself to his feet and headed for the door. A gust of wind blew cold darts of rain into his face. Tim’s car was in the lot but he knew better than to drive. He’d have Huge drive him over tomorrow morning. The walk back would give him time to think and sober up.

Tim had no idea how long he’d been walking when a car slowed down and paced alongside him. It was new and expensive, a rich kid’s car
—
the kind the sons and daughters of the Westmont Country Club crowd drove. The passenger window rolled down.

“Tim. Hey.”

It was a girl’s voice. He stumbled over and ducked down so he could see the driver. She was alone.

“It’s me. Melissa Stebbins.”

Tim placed her immediately. She was one of Cindy’s sorority sisters. Melissa had a reputation for doing drugs, drinking, and sleeping around.

“Get in,” Melissa said.

Tim thought about refusing, but the rain had sobered him up enough to make him feel miserable walking in it. The dome light switched on when Tim opened the door. It had given Melissa a chance to see his pale face and bloodshot eyes. It had also allowed Tim to notice Melissa’s breasts outlined beneath a tight sweater. He had the beginnings of a hard-on by the time he sat down.

“What are you doing out?” Melissa asked. “Don’t you jocks have a curfew?”

“I had something to do. Coach said it was okay.”

Melissa could smell the booze from across the car, and Tim looked like shit.

“Right,” she laughed. She saw the concern on Tim’s face. “Don’t worry. I won’t turn you in.”

The car swerved and almost went off the road.

“Whoops,” Melissa laughed as she brought the car back to the pavement. Tim realized that he wasn’t the only drunk in the car and that they were heading away from his house.

“I’m over on Kirby,” Tim said.

“Fuck Kirby,” Melissa laughed.

“Are you okay? You want me to drive?”

Melissa didn’t answer. She turned into the park and headed for the heavily forested section known since the advent of the car as Lovers’ Lane. Melissa smiled at Tim. There was no doubt what had prompted her look. If he’d been sober he would have been scared, but the booze had mashed down his inhibitions.

Sometime between parking and their first kiss, Melissa slipped her hand into Tim’s lap and began stroking his penis through his jeans. When she broke the kiss, Tim noticed that her eyes were glassy, but he didn’t notice much else.

“Want one?”

Melissa was holding out a handful of pills. Even as wasted as he was, Tim knew better than to mess with pharmaceuticals. He shook his head. Melissa shrugged. She shoved the pills into her mouth and washed them down with something from a bottle Tim hadn’t seen before. The hand returned to Tim’s lap. Melissa pulled down his zipper and unbuckled his pants. He was conscious of the rain pelting against the roof of the car. For a second, Tim thought about Cindy. Then Melissa’s mouth was on him and he wasn’t thinking about anything. His eyes closed and his buttocks tightened. He was about to come when Melissa pulled away roughly.

Tim’s eyes snapped open. Melissa’s eyes rolled back in her head. A moment later, she was thrashing against the driver’s-side door. Tim pressed backward, stunned and too terrified to think. Melissa was flailing. He knew that he had to do something, but he had no idea what. Suddenly, she collapsed, convulsed again, and stopped moving.

“Oh, my God. Melissa! Melissa!”

Tim forced himself to lean toward Melissa and touch her neck, checking for a pulse. Her flesh felt clammy and he pulled back. Had there been a pulse? He wasn’t certain. He just wanted to get out of the car.

The rain was still falling. He zipped up his pants. What should he do? Call someone, he guessed, an ambulance, the cops. But what would happen to him if he did? He was drunk, breaking curfew, an engaged man getting a blow job from a girl high on God knew what. Would the cops think he’d given her the drugs?

Better get out of here, he told himself. Tim ran. Then he stopped. He had to make a call. If he left her and she died . . . He didn’t want to think about that.

Another thought occurred to Tim
—
fingerprints. He’d seen cop shows. They’d dust the car, wouldn’t they? Where had he touched it? After that night, every time he was tempted to rationalize what he’d done, Tim would remember wiping the door handles and the dashboard.

The rain was starting to let up when he sprinted out of the park. He was two miles from home. There were houses across the street but they were all dark. He should pound on a door and tell them about Melissa. He could make up a story, say he was . . . what? Walking through the woods in the rain at three in the morning, drunk. And they’d know him. He was famous. If the cops told Coach what he’d been doing
—
that he was intoxicated
—
Coach would kick him off the team. He’d have no choice.

Tim kept running. There was a twenty-four-hour convenience store a few blocks from his house. He detoured past it and checked the lot for cars. A guy was inside, getting cigarettes. Tim waited until he left, then jogged to the pay phone and called the police anonymously, hanging up as soon as he was certain that the cops knew where to look for Melissa.

Tim’s house was dark and quiet. He let himself in and stripped off his clothes in his room. Melissa was probably okay, he told himself. Yeah, she’d probably just passed out. She’d been wasted. That was it. She was okay.

Tim went to bed, but he didn’t sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Melissa pressed against the car door, her eyes rolled back, drool clinging to her lower lip. When he sobered up, he cried, but he wasn’t sure if he was crying for Melissa or himself.

The next day at practice Tim learned that Melissa was dead. The paper said something about a preexisting heart condition and drugs and booze. There was no mention of a passenger. Tim wondered if Melissa would have survived if he had called for help as soon as he left the park. Was she dying while he was running for his life? Would a doctor have saved her?

Worst of all, he had spent time wiping away his prints to protect himself. Had those few moments meant the difference between Melissa living or dying? If he’d stayed with her until the ambulance arrived, would Melissa Stebbins have survived?