Defensive Wounds Read online

  DEFENSIVE WOUNDS

  LISA BLACK

  WILLIAM MORROW

  An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  DEDICATION

  For Elaine

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part I: Marie

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part II: Jenna

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part III: Rachael

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Part IV: Sonia

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Author’s Notes and Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Lisa Black

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PART I

  *

  MARIE

  CHAPTER 1

  *

  WEDNESDAY

  The first volley came in the form of a text message.

  CM QUIK. SUM1 DED HERE.

  Standing on the twenty-third floor of the Justice Center with her cousin, Theresa MacLean translated slowly and aloud. “ ‘Come quick. Someone dead here.’ ”

  “That from the lab?” Frank asked. He had met up with her after her testimony in an officer-involved shooting case, ostensibly to take her to lunch but more likely to get an update on the trial’s progress.

  “No,” she told him. “It’s from my daughter.”

  Now she and Frank pushed past the worn glass-and-brass doors into the vast lobby of the Terminal Tower, passing a microcosm of society on the way: panhandlers in ragged clothes with plastic cups, repeating “Got any spare change?” until the sound blended into the backdrop of bus engines and cooing pigeons; teenagers freed from home and school, dressed like gangsters-in-training regardless of socioeconomic background; sharp young men with crisply knotted ties and ladies arriving for lunch, armed with credit cards and fashionable scarves. Their voices bounced off the marble walls and echoed down the hallway before plunging into the cacophony of the Tower City Mall.

  The Terminal Tower had been built in 1928 by the odd but quite brilliant Van Sweringen brothers. It remained the tallest building in the world for twenty-five years. Its 708 feet of height reached from the rapid-transit station in the basement to a glitzy shopping mall, two hotels, and floors and floors of offices topped off by an indoor/outdoor observation deck. This deck had been closed since the September 11 attacks, a policy considered extremely silly by locals—as if terrorists would target Cleveland. Clevelanders love their city but have no illusions as to its status per the rest of the planet.

  Theresa entered the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton, the heavy glass door closing on its own. Any sound from the streets, the mall, the rest of the city was sliced off and left behind.

  “How long has Rachael been working here?” Frank asked. He had called his partner in the homicide unit to learn that a person had indeed been found murdered at the hotel. Two other detectives had been assigned, but that would not dissuade him. From the body he kept in shape to the neatly trimmed mustache, Frank lived for his job; besides, with no children of his own, he took on the role of papa grizzly when it came to his “niece.” Rachael’s own father checked in only between girlfriends.

  “About two weeks. Front desk. She likes it, likes being downtown, says her boss is decent.” The lobby spread out around them in tasteful shades of cream and beige. A man with bulky leather bags waited without apparent patience to check in, and a lean young waiter served a Bloody Mary to an older woman in a pink twinset as she lounged in an overstuffed cream armchair. “I—”

  “Mom!” Rachael appeared, long blond hair flying, torso encased in a tidy uniform that didn’t quite disguise her curves. At eighteen she had her mother’s height and lean build but her father’s excitability. “Hi, Uncle Frank. What took you so long? You look nice,” she added, taking in Theresa’s black skirt and somewhat styled hair.

  “Court.” That allowed her to explain both. “What’s going on?”

  Showing a new sense of discretion along with her uniform, Theresa’s daughter looked around and lowered her voice before speaking. “A guy called from the Presidential Suite and said there’s a woman murdered there and that it’s really gross and bizarre. She’s all tied up, and there’s blood everywhere—”

  “Did you see this body?” Theresa asked, dreading the answer. Dead bodies were her job, not her daughter’s. Never her daughter’s.

  “No. I was going to go up, but Shawna was on break and I couldn’t leave the desk—”

  Theresa felt herself making one of those “mother” faces. “Rachael—”

  “I just thought I’d check it out! You know how you always say Dispatch calls you and tells you there’s blood all over the place and then you get there and there’s, like, three drops? So I wanted to go make sure it was really worth getting Karla out of the Housekeeping meeting, but like I said, I couldn’t leave the desk alone, so I did get Karla—she’s the GM, general manager—and she went up. Then I guess she called you guys, because she didn’t call us back.” Rachael didn’t seem upset or even shaken, only stirred by this great drama, her hands fluttering as she spoke. The guest had taken his bag and departed, while the other young woman at the front desk studied Rachel’s mother with great intensity, no doubt having heard about her line of work. Rachael went on. “Karla said there’s a ton of blood, and William says that they can’t figure out how she got in there. And get this—”

  “Theresa!” A Homicide detective she recognized crossed the heavy carpet toward them. John Powell had thinning black hair and a layer of doughy fat under the skin on his face, but his body looked tough enough. He carried a small camera and a notebook, which left no hands for shaking. He glanced at Frank without much welcome and at Rachael with more, taking her in from toe to chest so skillfully that Theresa might have missed the absently sweeping look. She didn’t. “Thanks for coming,” he said to her. “We have a woman in the luxury suite. She—” Another glance at Rachael. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”

  “This is my daughter,” Theresa said.

  He nodded without interest—apparently, scanning the teenager was simple male reflex—and then spoke to Frank, “What are you doing here, Patrick? Doesn’t she go anywhere without you?”

  “Good morning to you too, Powell. I’m just tagging along,” Frank said, controlling the bristle. He and Theresa had worked a lot of cases together, and those cases always seemed to be the insane ones; it had become a stereotype. Each detective in the homicide unit had a theory about this: that they were unlucky, or lucky, cursed, or somehow cheating. “Anything to get out of court,” he told Powell now.

  “Well, you need to stay outside the tape unless you’re assigned. No sense cluttering up the contamination checklist with r
ubberneckers—and there’s going to be a lot of them,” Powell added with a sigh. The mild belligerence leaked out of him, deflating his shoulders. “This is going to be a cluster.”

  “Stay here,” Theresa told Rachael, eliciting a groan of protest, and followed Powell to the elevators. But two hotel guests got into the car with them, precluding conversation during the trip. Instead Theresa’s introduction came about in the form of an array of bright halogen lights set up outside the double doors to the tastefully marked Presidential Suite and a small army of policemen, hotel managers, and two EMS responders. They were not needed but lingered anyway, and no one wanted to create the bad blood that would surely result from kicking them out. Frank remained with them, firmly on the civilian side of the crime-scene tape, no doubt gnashing his teeth.

  Theresa stepped into the Presidential Suite behind Detective Powell.

  The trail began inside the double doors, only a few scattered stains across the fawn carpet. They could have been mistaken for dirt by someone not so familiar as she was with the black-red color of dried blood. Powell stopped to talk to another man, but she ignored them and continued past a small kitchen with granite countertops and a conversation area furnished with heavy armchairs, watching for any tiny scattered bits of evidence before she placed each foot. Thick drapes had been pulled back, and privacy sheers let the room fill with softened light. All seemed tidy. But through another set of double doors she could see the blood trail pick up.

  A bedroom, large enough for a king-size four-poster, a desk and more armchairs. The requisite fluffy comforter was turned down, the exposed sheets smooth and snow white. The room was crisp and perfect, but with enough touches of old money, enough sconces and carved details and deep wood to make it seem worth the price. Theresa wondered what the room had smelled like before it took on the scent of raw meat that had been left in the refrigerator a little too long.

  Against the opposite wall sat an end table and two armchairs; one cushion had been shoved out of place, and a drinking glass and a magazine lay on the floor. Blood drops increased now, accompanied by splotches, smears, and vague suggestions of footprints. A man with a detective’s badge stood to her left, jotting notes to himself.

  Theresa stared, as the sounds of activity and voices around her faded to a vague hum. She saw death every day, and murder many days, but this—this was the sort of thing one should see only on television, and really not even then.

  Thank God it wasn’t Rachael who found this.

  The victim was stretched across the middle of the carpet, almost equidistant from the foot of the bed, the armchairs and end table, and the bathroom. She lay on her stomach, head turned, right cheek resting on the floor with her hands stretched back to her ankles and tied there. She wore no clothes, and her bare skin had been spattered with blood. Long black hair obscured part of her face, and blood obscured the rest, soaking her hair and spilling onto the carpeting. Except for two red slashes across the right shoulder blade, all of the killer’s fury had been visited on the victim’s head, the scalp split by at least three heavy blows. Theresa crouched down—something that would have been a lot easier in her usual working uniform of khakis and Reeboks—to get a look at the face, with its pale skin and already clouding brown eyes. And then she looked again. “She … I …”

  “We think it’s Marie Corrigan,” the detective explained—his name could be Nelson, but Theresa couldn’t quite remember—stood next to the bed. Closer to her age than Powell’s and taller than both of them, he had receding brown hair, dark lashes, and a smile that made you want to keep an eye on him. “No ID, but it looks an awful lot like her, and her office said she’s supposed to be here.”

  “It’s her. I testified in front of her a few months ago.” Theresa shook her head, trying to reconcile the dead person with the live Cleveland defense attorney she’d known. “Why would she be staying at the Ritz?”

  “She wasn’t staying here. She was attending the convention.” At Theresa’s raised eyebrows, he explained. “The hotel’s full of lawyers. They’re having a convention for criminal defense attorneys, can you believe that?”

  “Everyone has conventions,” Theresa said. “Who rented—”

  “That’s just it. No one was registered to be in this room. I guess they can’t make enough off their dirtbag clients to afford the Presidential Suite. Almost makes me feel a little better.”

  “Almost,” Powell added, coming in behind her.

  Theresa said nothing about their evident bigotry. She respected attorneys but often didn’t like them, and she had no doubt they felt the same about her. It simply went with the territory of the adversarial system of law. Nothing personal. At least not usually.

  “So she wasn’t staying in this room.” It made sense, since there seemed to be nothing there save for the victim, her scattered clothing, and the hotel-provided magazines. Theresa could see into the thoroughly mirrored bathroom; it contained enough towels to stock a locker room, but no toiletries broke up the white-on-white accoutrements of the sink area.

  “No, it was vacant. Except somebody got a key,” Nelson or maybe-Nelson said. “They decided to ditch the latest legal scoop for a little luxury-suite whoopee with no room tax. He and Corrigan get their kink on, but then lover boy gets out of hand.”

  “Any suspects? A boyfriend?”

  “Don’t know yet, but suspects? A hotel full of them,” Powell said. “And I can’t wait to question them. How are they going to lawyer up?”

  “They’ll all represent themselves and say nothing,” his partner guessed. “This is going to be oh so much fun.”

  “Marie Corrigan,” she said, still trying to take it in.

  “Yeah. The bitch finally got what was coming to her.”

  “Finally,” Theresa breathed.

  CHAPTER 2

  *

  Many aspects of forensic science, Theresa knew, were not designed for the faint of heart. Among them: Zipping on a Tyvek suit that made her sweat in the dead of winter so she could move around an efficiency apartment with a four-week-old corpse oozing across the kitchen floor. Or asking a pedophile to open his mouth so she could rub two large Q-tips on the insides of his cheeks to collect his DNA. Or searching through a series of kitchen drawers looking for a murder weapon while cockroaches the size of ore carriers scuttled out from under every item touched.

  But the worst, the absolute worst, was having to put on a conservative black skirt and a pair of sensible heels and take a seat in a hushed, paneled room. A hot seat.

  The last time she’d seen Marie Corrigan alive, the seat had grown warm enough to sear flesh.

  Can you tell us what’s in that envelope, Ms. MacLean?

  Three months previously: In the witness box, Theresa opened a manila envelope, the red seal already torn from the attorneys’ examinations, and shook out a smaller envelope. From that she pulled a piece of glassine paper folded to about one inch square.

  “These are the fibers I removed from the suspect’s shirt.”

  “Which you say came from the victim’s sweater? This sweater?” Marie Corrigan held up an opened paper bag, helpfully giving the jury another peek at the bloodstained scarlet cardigan.

  “They all have characteristics in common with that sweater,” Theresa corrected. “I can’t say they positively came from that sweater. I have no idea how much of this thread has been produced or how many sweaters are in circulation.”

  “You said they are”—Marie made a show of picking up Theresa’s report from the defense table and quoting it directly—“ ‘alike in all discernible factors’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you show the jury those fibers?”

  “They’re very small,” Theresa warned. Even the closest jury members wouldn’t be able to see them, and, if passed around, they would surely be lost. Static electricity, a sneeze, or clumsy fingers would see to that.

  Marie said to do it anyway. As usual, the prosecutor did nothing, did not wish to be seen as coaching or
protecting the state’s witness. No sense handing the defense grounds for an appeal.

  Theresa unfolded the paper, then held up three fibers of neon pink. The jury could see them, all right. The last row of spectators could see them, and a child could see that they bore no resemblance to the bloodlike color of the victim’s sweater.

  “These aren’t the right fibers,” Theresa said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “These are not the fibers that were in this envelope,” Theresa said, unable to conceal the quaver in her voice. She’d never had her evidence stolen before, much less while in front of a jury.

  “My chambers!” the judge snapped. “You, too.”

  Theresa unhappily repeated her assertion in the cramped, white-walled office while the judge glared at her, the prosecutor, and Marie Corrigan. The fibers had been switched. Both offices had had access to the envelope, and both attorneys insisted they had no recollection of even looking at the fibers, just at the signatures and dates on both envelopes.

  The prosecutor reluctantly accused Marie. “She’s the only other person who could have—”

  “Along with a dozen interns, paralegals, and bailiffs,” she countered. “And you.”

  “And why would I torpedo my own case? The fibers are all we have, since your client strangled this poor girl with his bare hands. No blood, no murder weapon, her nails too short to get his DNA. The cellmate he confessed to is in the wind—no one can locate him.”