Seat of power, p.19
Seat of Power, page 19
“New and compelling evidence has come to light,” Marty said. “Judge Drummond has granted bail. A million dollars.” He scraped back a chair and sat with the heaviness of a man used to battles lost but sometimes won. He had won this one, but obviously with conditions.
“Where the hell did you come up with a million dollars?”
“God no, not me. Jacci Wilcox Coyote. God save us, the woman believes in you. She believes in you enough to put up ten percent. You’re not off the hook, not by any stretch. The charges haven’t been dropped. But you can breathe fresh air provided you adhere to stringent rules set forth by the Court.” He nodded toward the sergeant.
Even if he was visibly irritated with the decision, Benedicto had no choice but to abide by the judge’s orders. With a voice devoid of emotion, he laid out the conditions of Jack’s reprieve. “You’ll have to wear an ankle bracelet. Your movements will be traced and tracked via GPS. You can leave your house only for employment, medical, legal, or other obligations. You must check in before you leave and upon returning. You cannot travel outside the county unless you have an appointment with your lawyer or any of his appointees. You cannot come within three-hundred yards of your previous place of employment. A parole officer will be assigned to your case. He can and will check in on you via phone and in person, and without warning. Your car and the twenty cartons of evidence have been impounded and will stay impounded. Your passport has been confiscated. You’re still under suspicion.”
Though his lips pouted and his expression was grim, Jack detected black humor behind his stern pronouncements. Possibly the detective was on his side. More likely, he found himself with his back pressed against the wall and wanted to save what little grace was left him by laughing his way out.
Devlin stretched his arm across the table, the pads of his fingers drumming the surface. At his fingertips lay a manila folder, dog-eared and marked with random scribblings. His briefcase, the old-fashioned kind with buckle closures and scuffed leather, was propped beside the folder. Jack had never seen his lawyer look so unruffled. Or so smug. He glanced from one man to the other but settled his sights on the detective.
Arms still crossed, Benedicto stood with his back against the door. He was swallowing crow and didn’t appreciate the rancid taste, not one bit. He finally brought himself to speak. “The rape kit run on Ms. Whitney turned up semen. Another man’s semen. Different blood group. You’re A-positive. He’s O-negative. Ms. Whitney fought for her life. Skin and blood were found beneath her fingernails, also type O.”
“May I remind you, Detective, that no scratches were found on my client.”
With a cocky grin, he continued. “We haven’t found a match to the Type O but will continue to pursue. These facts alone didn’t convince the judge. We picked up hair on the bed sheets and in the sink. Long blonde hair with dark roots. They don’t match the victim’s, though of course, they could belong to another temporary tenant.”
Devlin brushed aside the innuendo. “Be my guest, Sergeant. Cast all the aspersions you want if it makes you feel any better.”
Benedicto drew himself up, inhaled a steadying breath, and went on. “We also lifted fingerprints in your bathroom and on the patio railing. Smudged but enough.” He looked toward the lawyer to continue the narrative.
“Your mystery woman?” Devlin said, beaming. “Kathy Heathland? She’s a mystery woman no longer.”
Jack was still standing. To sit was to invite weakness. He went on standing, stubbornly and defiantly, even if no one had compelled him to sit. “I was wondering.”
“Wonder no more.” Devlin fingered an eight-by-ten glossy from the folder and nudged it forward on the table. “This image was captured by a security camera outside Club Seven. You can view the video later, but I wanted you to see this first. She’s aware of the camera. Notice how she keeps her back to it. Except she made one small mistake. Maybe she heard approaching footsteps. Or someone spoke. Or a car drove past. Right here,” he said tapping the photo, “she turned slightly to the left.”
Even though the angle was foreshortened and elevated, the video frame caught a three-quarter profile. Jack recognized the haughty demeanor, the detached deportment, and the feline grin. He hadn’t imagined her. She wasn’t Medusa, monstrous daughter of Gorgon with hair of snakes who could turn a man into stone. Or Stheno, that most evil of sisters. Or Euryale, whose scream could strike down a man. She was flesh and skin and bone, and as real as real could be.
Benedicto said, “The day after Ms. Whitney was killed, she took an Air France flight to Paris. Airport surveillance captured her image. By then, she was a brunette. Unfortunately, she wasn’t stopped or questioned by customs at her point of arrival, even though she’s wanted in several jurisdictions. She used the name Caterine Marmont on her passport and flight reservation. She’s a woman of many disguises and many aliases, Marmont being the most recent. She doesn’t work for any single government, terrorist organization, or crime syndicate. Instead she hires herself out to the highest bidder. It’s thought that she has a male partner.”
Devlin was tapping the file folder. Inside lay Jack’s immediate past, his uncertain future, and the proof of his gullibility when faced with beauty. Marty tacitly urged Jack to look inside.
Opening the folder as if it were contaminated, Jack timidly slid out a stack of documents. On top lay mug shots and surveillance photos stamped INTERPOL. He wondered if someone was playing an elaborate joke on him, but this was no joke. She had dark hair running past her shoulders, dark eyes, arched eyebrows, and well-defined lips. There was no mistaking her.
“Her real name,” Benedicto said, his voice laconic, “is Katerine Cécile Arnaud Madoc. Wanted by the French police and Interpol. Accountant by occupation, forger by avocation, and criminal by trade. Arrested several times in her teens for prostitution. Turned her life around, went to school, earned a finance degree, and started running scams against private companies that had the bad luck of hiring her. Arrested once. Charges dropped. Seems she had intimate relations with the married owner. A year later, Interpol got the goods on her for packaging false IDs, but she slipped through their dragnet and dropped out of sight. They’ve been following her through a string of aliases: Caitlin Delmar, Kara Alexander, Katarine Socorro, and Cathy Price, among others. Her father was Paul Madoc, a crime boss in the Paris mafia. Her mother was a prostitute. Whenever French authorities think they’ve cornered her, she disappears. Interpol has been able to identify her through facial markers, but she’s been known to change even those with theatrical makeup and cosmetic surgery. A forensic profiler would say she’s a criminal genius and sociopathic. Your girl arrived in the States last month on a British passport under the name Karen Price. We don’t have a lot to go on. Hotel registrations, car rentals, known associates, unlawful activities ... we’re drawing blanks everywhere. Except for one thing. The red sports car you mentioned? On July second, a red foreign-make sports car was rented by a Ms. Cassandra Lukas. The real Cassandra Lukas was in town for the holiday. She stayed with friends and didn’t discover her driver’s license was missing until checking her wallet two days later. She reported the theft immediately. We have a photocopy of her license from the Atlanta DMV. Atlanta police have already confirmed Lukas’s story. They have no reason to doubt her. She’s a schoolteacher with a clean record. We asked the FBI to step in and pool resources with Interpol.”
Jack was looking down at his hands, no longer burdened by the weight of shackles or the constraint of chains. He knotted them into fists.
“Putting everything together,” Marty said, “the preponderance of evidence supports your claim, but it doesn’t exonerate you. You’re at liberty, provided you abide by house rules.”
“Then I’m still in jail, only a nicer one.”
Devlin ignored the sarcasm. “According to a court-appointed handwriting analyst, the signatures on the offshore bank documents are forgeries, substantiating your claim. Despite evidence to the contrary,” he said, shooting a glance toward the detective, “the court continues to deem you a flight risk. We hope to reset the preliminary hearing at the end of August, at which time we’ll petition Judge Drummond to dismiss all charges.”
Jack turned toward Benedicto. “You’re still convinced I did this thing.”
The detective remained impassive, showing nothing to indicate his stance either way, unless you counted the stance of a sheriff’s detective bent on doing his duty.
“There are two going theories of your supposed guilt,” Marty said, “both of which are farfetched and absent supporting evidence of any kind. Theory number one is that you had to keep Ms. Whitney quiet about something she knew, a murky conspiracy having to do with national security. No one will say, but I suspect this idea comes straight from your former employer. Theory number two is that you and Ms. Whitney conspired to steal that fifty million dollars and split the proceeds down the middle, except you wanted it all. This comes straight from the prosecutor. Being that as it may,” he said on a sigh of irritation, “Judge Drummond decided to give you the benefit of the doubt. The investigation goes on. I welcome it since they won’t find any evidence to bear out either story.”
“It’s a bad decision.” The detective still couldn’t bring himself to look directly at Jack.
“A jury will never buy it,” Devlin said. “Not with this evidence. Unless your department or the state’s attorney can come up with something more substantive, he’ll walk.”
“We won’t have to come up with anything more, Counselor. We’ll only have to rely on a preponderance of evidence.”
“Whatever happened to beyond the shadow of a doubt?” Jack asked.
“If the criminal justice system relied on that measuring stick, we wouldn’t need penitentiaries,” Marty said.
“And the prosecutor? What does she think about this arrangement?”
“I don’t give a crap what Sarah Kramer likes or dislikes,” Marty said. “She’s a dog with a bone. She sees a big field with no fences, a doghouse with her name on top, fur beds and gourmet treats, and masters praising her for being a good dog. She’s not going to let go of the bone when it still has some meat on it. Take this reprieve, my friend, and run with it. Metaphorically speaking, of course,” he said, shooting Benedicto a droll look.
“I have a question.”
“Shoot.” Devlin smiled at Benedicto. “Again, metaphorically.”
“Where did the bank and brokerage statements come from? How did the prosecution get them?”
“We asked.” Devlin sent the sergeant another look, this one skeptical. “From an anonymous source. And before you say anything, I know what you’re thinking. Are they real? The answer is yes.”
“Don’t you find it suspicious for them to magically appear minutes before the arraignment?”
“Oh, my goodness. You couldn’t possibly be implying there’s a conspiracy against you of some sort,” Marty said, staring at Benedicto.
Drake scraped out one of the many chairs, sat weakly, and peered up at Benedicto. “Tell me what happened to Milly. Tell me how she died. Exactly.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Sergeant,” Devlin cautioned, “you’re treading on dangerous ground.”
“I deserve to know that much. She’s a friend.” He had to remind himself. “Was a friend. Maybe not the best of friends at the end ... but still ... a friend.”
Minutes later, Jack was emptying out his guts over a county jail toilet, his stomach retching until nothing was left. He stared blindly into the bowl before stroking the flush handle a final time. For a man with indeterminate means and an uncertain future, standing upright was near to impossible. Stand he did and went out to the row of sinks.
Adversaries to the core, Devlin and Benedicto had retreated into opposite corners of the men’s room while Jack splashed cold water over his face. Even after washing away the stink of vomit, he couldn’t wash away the image of Milly’s final agonizing moments. He had asked, and Benedicto had delivered, hesitantly at first but then with a laconic soliloquy of horror.
The killer played with her using a garrote of some kind, repeatedly tightening and loosening a cord, leaving multiple ligature marks around her neck. By turns, he cut off the blood supply, violated her, let her come to, and when she fought, tightened the cord again. Probably he enjoyed this part the most. The struggle, the torture, the terror, the sadism. To play with her the way he did, he must have kept her alive for at least a couple hours. There were other ligature marks around her wrists and ankles. She didn’t stand a chance of fighting back or even of screaming loud enough for anyone to hear her. Forensics confirmed the torture and rape took place in her apartment.
He braced his hands on the rim of the sink. A stranger stared back at him from the mirror. Pale, sickly, and unsteady. Though the image did not look as dangerous as the media had made him out to be, his emaciated face was dissipated enough to convince the most forgiving observers of his guilt.
On the other side of the reflective glass, Benedicto stood guard, his back braced against the door. Marty stood at the far end, staring at his shoes.
“Hear my confession,” Jack said to their reflections. “I’m guilty.”
“Shit, Jack,” Marty said, “don’t say another fucking word.”
He turned around to face them, still unsteady but feet braced solidly on the tile floor. The dim yellow lighting sculpted the hulking men into bronze statues. The lavatory was white and bright and glittery and blinding. His confession yet echoed off the many shiny surfaces. The wall pipes made crackling noises. Distant voices came through the ventilation system.
“I did something that turned me into a target. And turned Milly into a target because of me. I didn’t tie her to the bed, but I might as well have. Because if not for me, Milly would still be alive.”
32
Bay Harbor Marina, Maryland
Wednesday, July 23
FREEDOM ARRIVED WITH a violent summer thunderstorm. Day turned into night, and rain drenched the landscape. As the wipers of Devlin’s sedan swept rhythmically across the windshield, a similar storm was brewing inside Jack.
It was like coming home from a long trip, where everything appears larger, crisper, and more colorful than when you left. This day, the opposite was true. The scenery reflected a monochrome sameness. Asphalt pavement. Silvery rain. Charcoal skies. Yet to experience the outdoors, to sniff the wetness of the air, to hear the crackling of thunder, to see lightning zigzagging across a muddy sky brought Jack back to civilization more sharply than a mild and sunny day would have.
The wind raged. So did Jack’s mood. Needing to fully confess his sins to Marty, he said, “There’s something I should tell you. Something you should know.”
Devlin pumped his index finger in the negative. “Don’t say another fucking word. Not only do I not want to know. I don’t want to have to testify about what I know.”
The news media must have sniffed out his release. Satellite-equipped vans lined the roadway leading into the townhouse development. Despite the wicked weather, traffic helicopters circled above like vultures, the whoof-whoof-whoof of circling blades chopping the air. When Devlin pulled into the driveway, reporters surrounded the vehicle, videos rolling, voices clamoring, questions overlapping.
“Should I turn around and drive out?” Marty asked.
The skies had miraculously parted. The combination of mist and sun was blinding, but Jack decided it would feel liberating to step outside and breathe fresh air. “Hell, give them what they paid for.” He cranked open the door. As soon as he stepped onto the driveway, he was bombarded with a scurrying rush of bodies, microphones, and cameras lenses. The fickle gods of notoriety must have been well pleased.
Devlin played interference. “Mr. Coyote won’t give a statement, now or ever. Interviews will not be granted, so don’t even ask. My client’s release on bond proves he should never have been arrested in the first place. At the proper time, he will be fully exonerated.”
Jack managed to unlock the front door. His housekey still worked. For a passing moment, he wondered how the paramedics had gotten inside on that awful night until he remembered Liz had a spare key. When he tumbled into the foyer, Milly’s ghost greeted him. He deserved her rebuke, the slap on his face, the distant odor of decaying flesh, and the echoes of betrayal. He could almost hear her laughter, the way she half-giggled and half-snorted, breathing in instead of blowing out, as if everything were a private joke just between the two of them.
Devlin fell in behind him, breathless and pink-faced. He slammed the door against the shouting and threw the locks. Eventually the pandemonium died to an uproar, the uproar turned into murmuring protests, and the murmuring protests receded into casual conversations.
Jack looked around. The townhouse had been trashed.
“Insurance will cover everything.”
“Did I say I give a damn?”
“Didn’t have to.”
Devlin hurried in and out rooms upstairs and downstairs, securing windows and doors, and closing blinds and curtains while Jack stood at the foot of the staircase, fearful of venturing farther. He reached out a shaky hand, grabbed the banister, and glanced up. He stalled, making mental excuses and trying to shake away the dread. Eventually he had to commit himself. He had to view the scene of his downfall and of Milly’s mortification. Might as well be now. He lumbered upstairs, bricks strapped to his feet. Devlin waited for him at the landing, grabbed him by an arm, and forcibly dragged him into the bedroom where Milly had died.
