Defensive Wounds Read online

  “Be careful, Sonia. Have you heard from Surfer Girl? You should take any threat seriously.”

  “Oh, please. She’s frustrated and grieving. If I lost my fiancé to a drunk driver, I’d be frustrated and grieving, too—it hardly makes her a psycho sex slayer.”

  “Don’t be too sure. That empathetic heart is going to get you in trouble someday.”

  “Has all my life. Why stop now? But what are you finding with Bruce? Is it the same person who killed Marie? It’s got to be, right?”

  “ ‘Bruce’? Did you know him? He was from Cleveland originally.”

  “Um … no, not really. He was at the PD when I started there, but only for another month or two. Then he went to private.”

  “Uh-huh. What else can you tell me about him?”

  Sonia hesitated, no doubt wondering what part of an acquaintanceship could be considered privileged. “He wasn’t a bad attorney. Sort of a steamroller, but he could come up with some pretty ingenious motions when he took the time to apply himself. He made one heck of a mens rea argument to get that ATM robber twenty years instead of life. You remember that one—the guy robbed a woman while she was making an ATM withdrawal and wound up shooting her.”

  “Wound up shooting her? He shot her dead for fifty bucks, with her two children in the backseat. And somehow that’s not his fault?”

  “Of course it’s his fault. But he didn’t have the desire or purpose in mind to murder, only to rob.”

  “I’m sorry, you take a gun to an ATM intending to rob somebody, then you can’t just say ‘I didn’t mean to’ after pulling the trigger.”

  “Legally, it makes a difference—at least it did to the jury. Anyway, that was Bruce.” A waitress in black pants and a snow-white shirt came by for drink orders, but they waved her off.

  “Why did he move to Atlanta?” Theresa asked. “Did he accumulate too many enemies here?”

  Sonia laughed. “He moved because a firm there offered him a larger salary. He didn’t care about power, only money. When it came to money, he was as driven as Marie. Maybe that’s why they got along.”

  “They knew each other?”

  Again that pause, as if deciding what she could share without abetting the enemy. “He and Marie dated for a short time. I mean, they hooked up for three or four months—I don’t know if you’d call it dating. Marie never did anything as ordinary as dating. But they were tight for a while, both in and out of the courtroom.”

  “While you were all at the public defender’s office?”

  “After that, I think. They worked for different firms, but they’d still show up in court on each other’s cases occasionally. They made a good team, in their way. Bruce came up with the out-of-the-box thinking—wild, hyperaggressive tacks. Marie had the stage presence to make them work. They should have opened their own office. They could have gotten Vlad the Impaler off with time served.”

  “Why didn’t they?”

  “Egos, I think. Too big to be in the same room for long, much less the same office.”

  “How do you know all this if you were only acquainted with them?”

  A faint blush. “I told you, Cleveland’s a big small town in a lot of ways. Scuttlebutt said Marie was pregnant at one point.”

  “When was that?”

  “After Bruce left the PD. But nothing came of it. I’ll bet she actually ate dinner for a change and the bulge in her belly set someone’s imagination running.”

  But then Bruce moved to another city … “Did you ever hear gossip about their relationship getting … kinky?”

  “You mean S&M, like how you found their bodies?”

  “Yes.”

  She expected Sonia to scoff, to agree with her theory that the sexual aspects of the murders had been staged to heap further humiliation upon the victims. But the lawyer said nothing, pensively tracing an ebony line through the glossy marble of the tabletop.

  “Sonia? Don’t tell me there’s something to it? That there’s really some secret dominatrix ring of criminal defense attorneys?”

  “What? No, of course not.”

  “Sonia, I’m not looking to smear their names. But if you want me to find out who killed them, you have to tell me what was going on in their lives. The killer left them trussed up for some reason. He wanted us to see them like that, and that fact could tell us who he is. Or she.”

  Sonia merely chuckled, though without much mirth. “I hate to disappoint your colleagues, but there is no secret or even not-so-secret sex club of kinky defense lawyers. Do we have the same amount of office relationships, affairs, and meaningless hookups as any other profession? Yes, certainly. Probably even more so.” Sonia abruptly leaned forward, both palms flat on the cool stone. “You have to understand what it’s like being an attorney. We’re adrenaline junkies, like Navy SEALs or car salesmen. We love the stalking, the hunt, the triumph of winning. We like to argue. I like to argue. Why do you think I persist in this job where sometimes my own clients hate me even more than the cops do, because I’m white or because I’m female or because I got an education and they didn’t? The victims think I’m a sellout to my own gender, and the judges treat me like I’m a high-school girl drawing bleeding hearts in her notebook.”

  “Why do you, then?”

  The woman gave her a crooked smile. “Because I love it. You probably think I’m nuts, but I love my job. I like to make deals. These people need me, even when they won’t admit it. I love being able to get help for them, and even when I can’t, at least someone tried on their behalf. If I quit, what would I do? Write up real-estate contracts? Manage a charity, spend my time begging rich people for money? I’d wake up every morning knowing that day would be a waste, and every day afterward.”

  “Okay,” Theresa said.

  “Anyway, it’s like why cops date cops—because no one else understands the lousy hours. So if Bruce balanced being an asshole in court with letting someone beat on him in the bedroom, it’s really not that surprising.”

  Theresa blinked at her friend. “How did you know that?”

  “Oops. This is one of those Perry Mason moments, isn’t it? When the witness lets something slip? Because once or twice I was the one doing the beating, okay?”

  The skin tingled at the nape of Theresa’s neck. “What? You and Bruce …? I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Please, Theresa, it’s not like I’m upset. Not everyone is like you—true blue, in it for love. Bruce and I got together years ago, because it was mutually convenient. Love wasn’t part of the deal. Dinner wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “And leather accessories were?”

  “Do you think I’d get a man into bed without wearing a mask?”

  That was not the answer Theresa had expected. “Sonia, that’s not fair, and it’s not correct—”

  “Don’t even think about giving me the ‘but you have a lovely personality’ bit!” Sonia snapped, as passionately as in any closing argument. “We roomed together for three years. How many dates did I have?”

  Theresa refused to answer but thought, One. Maybe two.

  “So don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Men hate my personality even more than they hate my looks—and I’m not interested in changing either. Besides, the masks, the accoutrements … it made it so different from the courtroom. I could pretend the sex happened in an alternate universe, that it wasn’t really real.” She slumped back. “Not to mention that I didn’t mind a chance to hit back, let someone else’s heart or whatever bleed for a change.”

  Theresa offered neither comfort nor censure, both of which would ring hollow. Like any woman, she didn’t like certain aspects of her looks, but at least she’d never had to know how it felt to dislike every single aspect. “And that’s all Bruce was to you?”

  “Absolutely. He was a slightly more prudent choice than a complete stranger in a bar, who might be a disease-riddled psycho. That’s all.”

  Sonia spoke with utter finality, but still Theresa wondered if
there might be some things she wouldn’t admit, even to herself—and if Bruce Raffel had been one of those things. “So Bruce had a kinky side. What about Marie?”

  “Don’t know for sure, but I would doubt it. Rumors regarding Marie Corrigan have run the gamut from blackmailing a judge to eating babies, but S&M? No. You want to know about Marie Corrigan’s proclivities, you’ll have to ask Dennis Britton. And while you’re there, ask him how his first wife died.”

  “What? Sonia, I know you don’t like him, but really—”

  The attorney checked her watch, and Theresa glanced up to see Frank striding toward them.

  “Her name was Ellie Baker,” Sonia said. “I met her my first week on the job. She eventually specialized in white-collar crimes, the lowly bookkeepers who snap one day and run off to the Bahamas with the monthly payroll. She was smart and tough and kind of a health nut. There’s only one thing she wasn’t, and that’s why she’s dead.”

  Theresa raised an eyebrow.

  “She wasn’t rich.”

  Then Sonia bailed out, of both the conversation and the room.

  Not rich, Theresa thought. Unlike Mrs. Britton number two … No, Sonia’s imagination had run away with her. Dennis Britton had married her friend, and then she died. He had coerced her client, and then he died. The same overboardness that made Sonia accuse cops of planting evidence on her misunderstood clients made her see patterns that didn’t exist. Better to concentrate on the murders, which did.

  Frank reached Theresa, dropping into the abandoned chair. “You shouldn’t have let her get away. She was his attorney, at least at first.”

  The fist of fire grasped her stomach again. “I’ve got that much. What did he need an attorney for?”

  Frank leaned in toward her, his voice low and controlled and deadly. “Rape.”

  Theresa blinked, absorbing the word in all its horror.

  Then he added, “And murder.”

  PART II

  *

  JENNA

  CHAPTER 13

  *

  Theresa forced herself to stay in her chair. Rachael was right around the corner, checking guests in and out and fielding requests for more towels, just as she had been for the past month. Your daughter is in no more danger than she was this morning or last week. Do not panic.

  Such a large chunk of parenthood consisted of telling oneself not to panic.

  “Start from the beginning,” Theresa said.

  “You’re not going to faint, are you? You don’t look so good.”

  “What am I, some Victorian maiden? Spill.”

  Now that he was not the only upset person in the room, Frank’s shoulders relaxed a tick. “Besides, it’s not like she’s engaged to the kid. It’s just a workplace flirtation. Get her another job and all will be well. Okay, here goes: Four years ago, when William was sixteen, a classmate of his, Jenna Simone, also sixteen, was found raped—presumably raped, no DNA—and bludgeoned in his living room. His parents were out of town. Apparently young William got passed-out drunk, then woke up with a hangover and blood on his hands. He called the cops. They took one look around and arrested him. Jenna’s car was parked out front. William said he’d gone to a school dance and had no idea how he got home with Jenna. They were acquainted, but not dating or in any sort of relationship. I’m getting this from a friend reading me the arrest report, which was all she could find. Everything else is locked up tight. The parents had everything sealed.”

  “That’s all you can find out?”

  “The records are sealed—but, happily, you can’t seal people. The first officer on the scene is now working in Parma. Vice, on nights. I’ll give him a call later.

  “Wait, this wasn’t that long ago. Why don’t I remember it?”

  “Dunno. It wasn’t our case, it was Westlake’s. I did try to call the two detectives who did the investigation—one retired last year and moved to Florida. Shook the dust of this place off his feet and never looked back, apparently doesn’t stay in touch with nobody.”

  Theresa looked away, chewing one thumbnail, and at that precise moment William Rosedale crossed the lobby. He and the other boy, the roly-poly one from the tower group, waited for an elevator.

  He caught sight of Theresa and nodded without smiling, doing nothing to endear himself to the mother of a girl interested in him. Maybe, she thought with sudden hope, he wasn’t interested in Rachael. Then she remembered the way he had brushed her daughter’s hair, watched her lips as she spoke. He was interested, all right. More than interested.

  So maybe he just didn’t care what Theresa thought.

  Frank was continuing. “I called the other guy, but he’s tied up with a search warrant on a fence at the moment. I’ve met him—good guy, he’ll talk to me. He’s back working Property instead of Persons, though. Maybe this case got to him, he decided he’d rather deal with thieves than murderers. Can’t blame him there.”

  Theresa’s heart pounded. Surely the boy must see that I know, I must be staring at him as if he’d just turned a bright shade of fuchsia. Maybe not, maybe there was enough space between them to put a silk screen over her widened eyes and gritted teeth.

  She forced a smile that felt sick to her and lifted a hand. The elevator arrived, and William stepped into it with one long-legged stride. The other boy did not but turned to enter Muse. The restaurant sat on the other side of the lobby, featuring an always-burning fireplace.

  “Frank,” she asked, past a lump in her throat that felt like coal, thick and dusty, “why is that boy not in jail?”

  “Two words,” Frank said. “Marie Corrigan.”

  “I thought you said Sonia was his attorney.”

  “Yeah, for about a day and a half until Mummy and Daddy got back with their checkbook. Then Marie took over. I don’t know how she did it, but she kept it in juvenile court and then got a not-guilty verdict.” Frank jerked his tie loose and rested the back of his head against the top of the chair. “I couldn’t stand the woman, but she was one hell of a lawyer. And you know juries are always ten times more cautious when sentencing a juvenile. No matter what they’ve done, it’s tough to look at some kid and send him to jail for the rest of his life.”

  “How did Marie get the case?”

  “I said I don’t know. I got her name from the clerk of courts, but the transcripts are sealed, the depos are sealed, everything is sealed.”

  “Except people. The prosecutor—”

  “Exactly. Brian Morgan. You better talk to him, though. He’s not so crazy about me.”

  “Why?”

  The waitress came by again. Theresa declined a drink order. She didn’t feel bad about occupying a table without buying anything—they were the only people in the lounge. A hushed quiet had descended with the attorneys all in their sessions. She still itched to go check on Rachael but fought it. She had seen William leave the floor. Rachael worked right around the corner, in full view of others. Don’t panic.

  “He thinks I exaggerated probable cause to get an arrest warrant on that guy who killed the pizza-delivery man. Then the judge looked at him cross-eyed, and I guess it hurt his feelings. Don’t know why he fussed—the judge gave us the warrant and the guy confessed, so it’s all water under the Hope Memorial Bridge.”

  “You took a chance.”

  “Every day is a chance.”

  “Where is he today? Morgan?”

  “I don’t know. I could only do so much in a morning, cuz. I wanted to get over here as soon as I could to tell Rachael to clean out her locker.”

  “That’s going to be easier said than done.”

  “No surprise there. She’s as stubborn as you are. Look at it this way: As soon as I get his record unsealed, I’m sure the hotel will find a way to fire him. That will at least get him partially out of Rachael’s life.”

  “They can’t fire him if he wasn’t convicted, can they?” Theresa asked.

  “As I said, they’d find a way. Keeping someone with that record on staff would be too big a
liability.”

  “And Rachael will believe that we ruined this kid’s life over a charge that hasn’t even been proved, and she’ll never speak to me again. Plus, wouldn’t you get in trouble for using your authority to examine sealed records?”

  “If there hadn’t been two murders in this hotel, yes. But we’re checking criminal histories on every employee as part of the investigation. So we can protest to Rachael, truthfully, that it’s not our fault.”

  “As soon as the record is unsealed.”

  “Yes. Until then, okay—I can’t really inform the hotel. If this kid or his family really protested, it would get sticky for me.”

  “Should we tell Neil and Powell?”

  “Neil?” Frank asked. “If it were just Marie Corrigan, I would say yes. But this kid killed a teenage girl, probably for turning him down. He might have killed Marie Corrigan for the same reason, but Bruce Raffel? What possible connection could he have to Bruce Raffel? There’s no reason for him to have a grudge against lawyers, when they’re the ones who saved his ass. Again, let’s get the records unsealed and then let Kelly and Powell draw their own conclusions.”

  “So in the meantime I need to warn my daughter off a boy I think she really likes.” Theresa resumed chewing one of her thumbnails. “This is going to take some finesse.”

  “Oh, yeah. And that’s your middle name.”

  She got to her feet, feeling considerably older than she had a half hour previously. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. And thanks, Frank—thanks a lot.”

  He rose as well, acknowledging what she’d said with only a bobbing nod. He would do anything for Rachael, she knew, especially since Theresa had split from her husband. But if anyone had less finesse than she did, it was Frank. She had to keep him from trying to order his niece around, or the girl would only become more intractable.

  And somehow she expected that “intractable” would be putting it mildly. Rachael had battled Theresa’s overprotectiveness for years. This wouldn’t be only one more skirmish—more like all-out warfare.