Natural Suspect (2001) Read online

  Checking over his shoulder, he made sure the hallway was empty. He opened both hands and dropped two bags to the floor: his black doctors bag and the plastic cooler. Going for the doctor's bag first, he opened the zipper, rummaged down past the blond wig, and pulled out a small, rectangular case that looked as if it might hold a Montblanc pen. With a quick flip, he opened the case and took out a thin, wire-tipped instrument. Sure, he was good at disguises and booby traps, but that was just the tip of the tall anal-retentive iceberg. A man in his line of work also had to be proficient at first aid, marksmanship, computer hacking, long-range weaponry, short-range weaponry, medium-range weaponry, scuba infiltration, Chinese jacks, and most important, lock picking. A silent flick later, the door swung open and the tall man was inside.

  The office itself was sparse and uninspired: a small reception area in the front with a few randomly scattered magazines, and a larger office in the back lined with diplomas and a few personal photos. After checking out the layout for himself, the tall man returned to the reception area and, on a hunch, stepped behind the receptionist's desk. On top of the desk was a phone, a cheap black blotter, and a coffee mug. Raising an eyebrow, he pulled open all the desk drawers. Empty. Every one. Not even a stray pencil. Devin McGee may work in the back, but the reception area was just for show.

  Proud of himself, the tall man approached the nearby coffee table and picked up a People magazine. It reminded him of the severed hand he sent to Rutledge. Was it too Godfather? he wondered, checking the always-easy People crossword puzzle. An homage is one thing, but he'd rather die than be derivative.

  Flipping back to the front of the magazine, the tall man noticed that the issue was dated a year ago, and that the fraying subscription label was addressed to the Dental Offices of Dr. Milton McGee. She must be taking them from her father. How sad, he thought, as he tossed it back on the table. Must be a bad time to be a lawyer.

  "Well?" Trent asked, rolling toward his partner and propping himself up on an elbow.

  " Well what?" Marilyn shot back. Lying flat on her back, she let the covers dangle beneath her breasts.

  "Well, was it better than the gardener?"

  "Don't start with that."

  "I'm not starting--I'm just curious."

  "You're not curious--you're rubbing it in. You're like an annoying old uncle who always tells the same joke." She lowered her voice and continued, "Was it better? Was it better? Huh, huh, huh, huh?" Shifting back to normal tone, she added, "Get off my case already. We've been through it five hundred times."

  "Doesn't make it right."

  "I never said it did," Marilyn shot back. "I thought you didn't care if I slept with other people."

  "That was just a lie to make you think I was edgy."

  "Oh, I knew you were edgy--your bunny convinced me of that."

  Trent smiled and turned toward the metal cage. Still wet from the morning's festivities, the rabbit shivered, its dark eyes focused angrily on Marilyn. I hate youy it seemed to say. I hate you, meat.

  Marilyn glanced down at her fur coat on the floor, then grinned back at the enraged rabbit. "You'll never win!"

  "Marilyn, can you please stop teasing him?" Trent begged.

  "Why? Suddenly you're jealous?"

  "Of course I'm not jealous. I just. . . just leave him alone, okay?"

  "He star--"

  "I don't care if he started it--and stop trying to change the subject. We were talking about you and the gardener."

  "Actually, we were talking about me and the rest of the populace. And the way I remember it, you didn't seem to mind when it turned you on."

  "That was different."

  "Only thing different was the number of people in bed. And no offense to you, pretty boy, but you're not half as much fun alone."

  Clenching his teeth, Trent tried to play it cool. He wasn't going to give her the satisfaction. "Let me ask you this," he added. "If it was so bad, why'd you beg for another go-round this morning?"

  "You mean besides making you late for court?"

  "Late for--? I thought you said it was--" He looked at the alarm clock. 7:50 a. M. He grabbed his watch from the nightstand. 9:50 a. M. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked, jumping out of bed. "Why d you set it back?"

  "To be a bitch," she said with a twisted grin.

  "Don't play mind games with me, psycho queen. It's not funny anymore."

  "Actually, I think it's really funny. Hysterically funny."

  Trent continued to hop around, struggling to get dressed. "I'm serious," he said as he pulled on his pants. "I don't like being tricked."

  She lifted his tie from the floor and dangled it in front of him. "Silly rabbit," she purred. "Tricks are for kids."

  He ripped the tie out of her hands. "I knew you were going to say that! Everyone says it! You can't even help it, can you? It's so old and easy, it just comes right out!"

  "So do you, but you don't see me complaining."

  Trent stopped where he was. "Have you always been such a vampire?"

  She pulled the covers over her breasts and grinned. "When we used to go to Disney World, I'd bring a wheelchair so we could cut all the lines."

  "You're sick, y'know that?"

  "I hope so," she said. "But that doesn't mean I don't want you to win."

  Shoving his feet into his shoes, Trent raced for the door. "We'll discuss the rest of it later. Just feed Buck before you leave."

  "Whatever you say, lover boy."

  The door slammed shut, and Marilyn stared at the rabbit. Its nose twitched with rage. Refusing to take her eyes off him, she got out of the bed and reached for the phone. Eleven digits later, a voice said hello. "It's me," Marilyn explained as she approached the cage. "Yeah. Yeah, he just left. He didn't even think about it--it's just like I told you-- typical male." Leaning down toward Buck, she slowly brushed her fingernails against the bars of the cage. "Hold out the right carrot, and they'll always come running."

  Following the twisting and turning hallway, Devin McGee had her chest out and her head high. Sure, it wasn't right to trick the judge, but. . . well ... at least it bought her some time. Like her Crim Law professor used to say, "When it's out of your control, get it out of the courtroom."

  At the end of the hall, she quickly approached suite 727. Seeing the familiar devin a. mcgee--attorney at law sign, she reached into her purse and pulled out a small wad of keys. She slid them in the door and was relaxed by the thunk of the opening locks. The sounds of home. Twisting the doorknob, she thought she heard something move, but as she flipped on the light switch, all she saw was the familiar my lawyer's bigger than your lawyer coffee mug sitting on the always-empty receptionist's desk. There was another sharp noise behind her and the door slammed shut--but before Devin could react, a thick, meaty hand clamped over her mouth. Her eyes were still focused on the happy bright red letters of the coffee mug. That was the last thing she saw.

  After a trip to his apartment for a quick replenishment of clothes, Patrick didn't waste time getting back to his office. Despite his limp, he stormed through the humming newsroom, marched past the unending rows of cubicles and, without stopping, threw open the door to Whitechapel's office, sending it crashing into the wall. Whitechapel was in the middle of his midmorning ritual: With an open can of anchovies in his hand, he was hunched over his desk, flipping through a six-inch stack of various-sized newspapers. The competition'll kill you in New York.

  Hoping to keep the conversation private, Patrick closed the door behind himself, leaving just the two of them alone in the office. Whitechapel was so caught up in his reading material, he still hadn't looked up.

  "Boss, I need to--"

  "Let me ask you a question," Whitechapel said as he used his fingers to pick a runny anchovy out of the metal can. He put it in between his lips and sucked it in with a slurp. "Do you believe in acquired tastes, or do you think they're just self-delusional lies?"

  "Actually, I was wondering--"

  "Save your wonde
ring--this is an important question." Flipping through the paper and throwing back another anchovy, he added, "For as long as I can remember, people have said caviars one of the great delicacies of the world. Then last night, I go to this cocktail party and this fella--he's full of a good six or seven brandies--he tells me that caviar is a practical joke that the rich play on the rest of us up-and-comers. Says it's like the emperor's new clothes--the rich say they love it--they even order it for their parties--but when it's passed around, they never touch it; they just wait to see who does. Then when the compliments start flying about how delicious it is, they sit back and laugh themselves sick. It's supposed to be some grand old tradition that separates the haves from the have-a-lots."

  "Sir, I don't think that's--"

  "Think about it, boy. It's just like Shakespeare said: "twas calvary to the general'--general public is who he's talking about. Me and you. I mean, it's a rotten-smelling mush of fish spew, and we pay two hundred bucks a pound to brag about it on a cracker."

  "But--"

  "And why should it stop at caviar? It could be all acquired tastes-- scotch, modern art, Renaissance Weekend--for all we know, every one of them's a big, fat self-decepti--"

  "So what if it is!?" Patrick shouted. "What're you gonna do? Print a tell-all story and have everyone call you a crackpot? Sure, it tastes like crap; sure, we all hate it; sure, we all swallow it with a smile. That's who were are--we want to fit in--and nothing you write is gonna change that. Period. End. Finis!"

  Closing the newspaper in front of him, Whitechapel finally looked up. "I take it this isn't about a problem with the crossword?"

  "What do you think?" Patrick asked, limping forward. His eyes were hollow, with deep bags below them.

  "You were fishing around the Hightowers, weren't you?"

  "Boss, before you--"

  "Didn't I tell you not to do that? Weren't those my exact orders? I swear, Patrick, from here on in--if they sue us for--"

  "Julia Hightower didn't kill her husband!"

  Right there, Whitechapel stopped. He knew what it took to sell papers. "Say again?"

  "I'm telling you, she didn't kill him."

  "And I suppose you have proof of this?"

  "Nothing concrete, but I have a source."

  "A source?" he asked, shooting out of his seat. Patrick had seen this before. Whitechapel leaned forward so his knuckles rested on his desk. "Who is it? Fatty? Mickey? Rubin?"

  "No one you know, but I think he's solid." Patrick took a deep breath. He didn't like lying to his boss, but the clown had been specific. The first thing he had to do was plant a story. Nothing special--just something to raise a few eyebrows. Shine the spotlight. After that, the rest would start falling into place.

  "So he gave you solid info on Julia's alibi?"

  "Not exactly--but he did point out that she doesn't necessarily have everything to gain."

  "I don't understand."

  "Don't you remember the Doniger case a few years back--rich Upper East Side old guy drops dead from what looks like a diabetic stroke. Then it comes out that his way-too-young wife and his best friend actually did him in and stuffed him in his wine cellar until they established their alibis."

  "I remember it," Whitechapel insisted. "So what's the point?"

  "The point is, when it came out that the wife was involved with the murder, she didn't get a single nickel of inheritance. According to New York law, we've got the equivalent of a slayer statute, which means killers can't benefit from their crimes."

  "And that makes you convinced Julia didn't kill her husband?"

  "No," Patrick said. "It makes me convinced that if Julia Hightower is found guilty, there're plenty of other people who can get their greedy mitts on the Hightower pot of gold."

  Whitechapel nodded to himself. "I see what youre saying--if Julia gets convicted of the murder . . ."

  ". . . then the money goes to whoever's next in line in the will. . ."

  "... which means Marilyn and Morgan have millions of great reasons to kill daddy and pin it on mommy." Shaking his head, Whitechapel added, "And people say families dont talk anymore."

  "So what do you think?" Patrick asked.

  "It's a little out there, but its certainly possible."

  Patrick grinned. "So I have a story?"

  "Are you nuts? You have some nice conjecture, but there's not a single fact in there--not to mention the fact that in the Doniger case, the wife did kill her husband."

  "But the--"

  "Patrick, writing a story isn't the same as writing nine-down and eight-across--this is news, my friend. So unless your source gave you some actual facts, all you've--"

  "What if I gave you a body?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "A body. A dead body," Patrick explained. "Arthur Hightowers lawyer, to be exact. My source gave me the location and said Julia had a foolproof alibi."

  Whitechapel crossed his arms over his broad chest. "You yanking my ya-ya?"

  Patrick looked him straight in the eyes. "What do you think?"

  Staring back, Whitechapel knew the answer. He pulled a pad from his top drawer and slid it across his desk. "Give me the address and get your ass over there. I'll give you a fifteen-minute head start before I call it in--that should be more than enough time to make sure you're first man on the scene."

  "Great," Patrick beamed, a wide smile lifting his cheeks. "That's great." He scribbled the address, then darted for the door.

  "By the way," Whitechapel interrupted. "This wouldn't have anything to do with that limp you got going, would it?"

  Patrick froze. "What're you--"

  "I'm not a moron, son. You look ten years older than when you left here yesterday, and suddenly you've got better information than my top city guy." Pausing for a moment, he added, "Now, do you want to tell me what's going on?"

  Patrick stared at the carpet.

  "This source of yours isn't on the up-and-up, is he?"

  Again, Patrick didn't answer.

  "Is he threatening you--"

  "No. Not at all," Patrick shot back. If Whitechapel thought they were being manipulated, he'd bury the story. Besides, regardless of the clown's motives, a dead body is still news. "I promise you, boss--when I can explain, I will. For now, I'm just asking you to trust me. Please."

  Biting the inside of his cheek, Whitechapel stayed silent, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Patrick could feel the weight of judgment wash over him. Finally, Whitechapel said, "I'll give you the byline, but I want all copy running through me."

  "You got it," Patrick said. "Everything through you."

  "One last thing," Whitechapel called out. "Why're you doing this?"

  "Why do you think?" Patrick asked without looking back. "I want to be a reporter." Before his boss could say a word, Patrick opened the door and left the office.

  Limping back through the newsroom, Patrick thought about the real answer to Whitechapel's question. Why am I doing this? he asked himself for the tenth time this morning. For the most obvious reason of all. He tightened his fists and did his best to bury the pain. "/ want my toe!"

  "I want my hand!" Rutledge shouted, banging his antique walnut desk.

  "I'm sure you do," the man in the cheap wool sport jacket stated. "But let me remind you of two things: one, it's not your hand; two, and more important, it's officially being cataloged as evidence." After sliding the severed hand and its gift-wrapped box into a clear, plastic evidence bag, Detective Guttman sealed it up like a salami sandwich in a Ziploc and tossed it in a cooler packed with dry ice. On the outside of the cooler were the words lil' phreeze and a small cartoon Eskimo.

  Watching the detective in front of his desk, Rutledge clenched his teeth and sat back in his chair. If it were up to him, he'd never have called the police, but Cordelia, as usual, overreacted. How was he supposed to know that when she ran from the office, her first reaction would be to dial 911? Sure, it's a severed hand, but hasn't she ever seen any mob movies? They do this stuff all th
e time.

  "Now is there anything else you wanted to add?" Detective Guttman asked as he pulled a ratty notepad from his jacket pocket.

  "I think you have everything," Rutledge replied, his voice its usual mix of strong suggestions and soft threats. "You know it all."

  "Thanks. We'll be in touch as soon as we get an ID."

  Rutledge nodded and the detective headed for the door. Watching him leave, Rutledge knew he wasn't going to have to wait for the ID. The moment he saw the severed hand, with its JFK gold initial ring, he knew Joseph Francis Kellogg was in trouble. The ring was a knockoff of the one Kennedy used to wear before he was president, but Kellogg used to brag that it was the original. Typical lawyer, Rutledge had thought when he first heard it--always trying to impress.

  Buzzing his intercom, Rutledge waited for Cordelia to answer.

  "Mr. Rutledge?" she stuttered. "Is everything okay?"

  "Actually, that's what I was going to ask you." Before he could finish, he heard the line go silent. Seconds later, there was a soft knock on his door. Cordelia. "Come in, come in," he said, anxious to be near her once again.

  She slowly leaned into his office and her green eyes lit up the room. "Sorry to interrupt. I just--"

  "Not at all," he said as tenderly as possible. "I mean, considering the morning's events . . . well, let me put it this way ... if you need some personal time, you're more than welcome to take the rest of the day off." Smiling to himself, Rutledge knew she'd never take him up on the offer, but as long as he put it out there, he'd be able to--

  "Actually, that was just what I was going to ask you," she interrupted. "If it's okay, I figured we'd call it a half day." Before he could argue, Cordelia was back at the door--this time on her way out. The door slammed shut, and once again, he was all alone. He hated being alone.

  The ensuing silence smacked him square in the chest--and as the consequences started to sink in, a single bead of sweat ran down the center of his forehead. Whoever did this--they knew what he was up to. In the town of a billion secrets, his most closely guarded one had somehow gotten out. That's why they sent the hand. And while, sure, having it delivered was a bit too Godfather, only a fool couldn't see the writing on the designer-painted walls: Like it or not, the rules had changed.