First Offense (32 page)

Ann sensed his pride had been wounded, and she chuckled. “Maybe, but I’ll just take the pleasure.”

In a rapid movement Glen leaped on top of her and pinned her hands to the floor. “Now you’re powerless,” he said. “Completely under my control.”

Ann giggled, but she didn’t like it. She tried to wrench her arms free. “Let me go. I don’t…”

“What?” Glen said lightly. “Are you one of those women that has to be in control, Ann?”

“It’s not control…it’s…let go of my arms. I want to get up.” Didn’t he know that she’d just been attacked? Didn’t he know how it had made her feel to be pinned on the floor by a man again? Perhaps it was because of the attack that he felt some need to reassert control.

A black intensity appeared in his eyes, but he released her arms. “There,” he said, standing and reaching up to the mantel for his wineglass. “I didn’t mean anything.”

Ann stood as well and wrapped her arms around his waist, kissing him on the nape of his neck. Then she moved her hands to his shoulders and felt the rigid muscles. He was tense over the situation with Hank, she told herself, fearful that he might lose her. “There’re some things I just don’t like. Glen. But I want to make love to you. You made me feel fantastic tonight.”

When he didn’t respond, Ann pulled away, knowing there was nothing she could say to reassure him. Their relationship was young, and as yet they had not learned to trust each other. Possibly, she thought, he was comparing their lovemaking to what she had shared with Hank. She almost laughed, thinking he had nothing to worry about in that department. Sex with Hank had been fast and rough, and she had seldom been satisfied.

Walking around his living room, Ann began looking at the art objects, the photographs on top of the sleek grand piano. Of course, as a district attorney he made more money than she did, but she knew there was family money. His fancy car, his European clothes, the antiques. She picked up a picture in a silver frame and gazed at it. “Is this your mother? She looks so young. I mean, being a judge, I expected her to be a lot older.”

Glen took the picture out of her hand and placed it back on the piano. “I don’t want to talk about my mother, okay? Any more than I want to talk about your husband. Come with me.”

He led her in the direction of the bedroom. As they were walking down the hall, a shiver of fear raced through her body. The hall was dark, and memories of the night she had been attacked returned. Ann slammed back against the wall, lost in panic.

“What’s wrong?” Glen said, his hand sliding out of hers.

Ann could hear the man’s voice now: “Don’t you like that? Doesn’t that feel good?” After the attack was over, so much of what had happened in that hall had vanished from her mind. Now she remembered everything: the way he smelled, the way he had sat on her back.

“I—I feel sick,” Ann stammered, already sidestepping down the hall toward the living room, knowing she had to get some fresh air. “The food…the wine…I have to go.”

“Wait,” Glen said, following her. “If you don’t feel well, lie down until you feel better. If you want, I can even drive you home, and you can pick up your car tomorrow.”

“No,” Ann said, seizing her clothes off the floor and quickly dressing. “Please, Glen, I want to go home. I don’t feel well. Everything was great, but…”

He tossed his hands in the air in frustration. “Whatever.”

Ann stepped into her shoes and then raced out the door.

Once she was inside the Jeep, Ann put her head down on the steering wheel in despair. She had to take control of her life and stop the madness once and for all, or she was going to lose this man and the happiness he had brought her. Raising her head, she stared back at the house, longing to return but knowing she couldn’t.

Her thoughts turned to the telephone conversation with Glen earlier in the day. He was the only person who had made any sense of the situation. Perhaps there was something about Jimmy Sawyer’s eyes that reminded her of Hank. As Glen had pointed out so logically, on both occasions when she had been in Sawyer’s presence, she had instantly thought of Hank. Was it cruelty she saw in his eyes? Was Sawyer as explosive as Hank? Was that something she would instantly recognize after all the years of abuse? Ann knew it was possible.

How many times had she actually seen Sawyer? The first day in the courtroom, the night of the shooting, the time they met for lunch. On all those occasions she had been either injured or distracted by other concerns. And the day of his arraignment, she had been worried that he was about to slander her reputation in the courtroom. Appearances had always meant so much to her. It was one of the reasons she had never told anyone about Hank’s abusive behavior.

Sawyer wasn’t merely a drug dealer, not with human fingers in his refrigerator. Yes, she thought, cranking the engine and pulling away from the curb. Glen had to be right.

Chapter
17

S
unday morning brought a new determination. Ann got out all the information she had collected on the Sawyer case, as well as the information relating to her shooting, and stacked it in neat piles on the kitchen table. The only way to reclaim her life, she had decided the moment she woke up, was to find the person or persons responsible for terrorizing her. She couldn’t let her relationship with Glen be destroyed by some clever mutt with a talent for impersonating voices.

Ann got David’s blackboard from his room, lugged it down the hall, and propped it up on the kitchen counter. All morning and into the afternoon she worked, making notes on the blackboard when a detail caught her eye or when she saw a hole in the case that had not been filled. One large gap that emerged was any background information on Peter Chen. Because he had no prior criminal record, other than a few parking citations, they really knew next to nothing about him. So how were they supposed to locate him? He wasn’t living on Henderson anymore, but it was doubtful that he had left the area. He was simply too young to leave his family and contacts in the community behind. He was also Chinese, and Ann knew the importance most of them placed on family.

Rubbing her chin, she flipped back through her notes. Someone had learned that Chen had attended Long Beach State at one time and studied chemistry. But the note in the file indicated that all the information the university had provided them had led nowhere. No wonder, Ann thought, studying the fax from the registrar’s office. The student in question was named Peter Chen, all right, but he was the wrong one. At the time they had checked, they’d only had Chen’s name and not his date of birth. The date of birth on the school records was not the same as Chen’s, and Noah Abrams had failed to contact the school again once he had the correct information.

Glancing at the clock, Ann was reminded that it was Sunday. No one would be in the registrar’s office on the weekend. Then she had another idea. She picked up the phone and dialed information. “I need the number for the dean’s office at Long Beach State,” she told the operator.

After seven unproductive phone calls, Ann finally called the computer lab and got an answer. She asked the student who picked up the phone if the dean lived on or near the campus. He advised Ann he did. She then informed the student that she was a deputy probation officer and needed to speak to him regarding a dire emergency involving a student. The boy agreed to go to the dean’s house and have him call Ann right back.

She waited, tapping her fingers on the kitchen table.

Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang, and Ann seized it.

The voice said, “Get David.”

The voice on the phone was her husband’s, but Ann refused to be deceived, “If that’s you. Sawyer, you’re making a serious mistake,” she said forcefully. “The next time you get within five feet of me, I’m going to blow your fucking head off.”

She waited, holding her breath and listening. She heard something on the line, but she wasn’t certain what, some kind of clicking noise. “You’re not going to talk, are you? You’re just going to keep calling and calling. Whoever you are, you’re not going to get to me.” Ann didn’t wait for the person to hang up this time. She slammed down the receiver. If it wasn’t Hank and some jerk was trying to rattle her cage, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. From now on, she decided, the moment she heard that voice, she would simply hang up. Once the caller realized Ann wasn’t buying it, the game would be over.

A few minutes later, the dean of students called, and Ann tried to talk him into going down to his office and getting the information on Peter Chen out of the school’s computer banks.

“I don’t have to do that,” the man said. “I’m linked to the university’s system through my own computer. Wait, let me see what I can find.” He left the line open, and Ann heard computer keys tapping. A minute later, he came back on the line. “That’s such a common name. You know, we have a lot of Chens here. We certainly tried to cooperate with the police when they called. Hold on,” he said again. “I think I have it.” He rattled off Chen’s physical description and date of birth. Ann verified it from the driving records. “Would you like me to fax his complete student profile, everything we have?”

“Super,” Ann said.

“I have to fax it to a legitimate agency, Ms. Carlisle. You do understand, don’t you?”

“No problem,” Ann said, giving him the fax number at the probation department and thanking him profusely. As soon as she hung up the phone, she grabbed her jacket, shoved her Beretta into her purse, and took off.

Sunday-evening traffic was light on the 405 Freeway headed to Huntington Beach, and Ann was making good time. Checking her map and the list of addresses she had jotted down on a yellow note pad, she took the Beach Boulevard exit and watched for the right cross street. Finally she found it and searched for the numbers on the houses. According to the school records, Peter Chen’s uncle lived here.

It was a small, neat house, the lawn perfectly manicured. Ann knocked, waited, looked around the back, and then finally left. There were several days’ worth of newspapers in the driveway. The people had to be out of town.

The next stop was one of Peter Chen’s character references on his college application. At least someone came to the door, but he wasn’t Chinese and claimed he had never heard of Peter Chen. A new tenant, Ann decided.

After another stop four miles away in Redondo Beach, Ann backtracked to Huntington Beach again and checked her map. Of all the places she had checked, 1845 Orangewood had to be the biggest long shot. It was Chen’s parents’ home, and the boy was unlikely to hide there. As she drove through the neighborhood of houses worth three or four hundred thousand dollars, she couldn’t help but think what a waste it was that all three of these boys had become involved in criminal activity. Unlike inner-city kids, they’d had all the advantages: decent homes, good families, money for college. Peter Chen’s academic history at Long Beach State had shown him to be an outstanding student. Why did a boy so bright have to throw it all away?

She knocked on the front door and waited. A young Chinese boy cracked open the door and peered out. He was so small, Ann thought at first that he was only about ten, but on further inspection she decided he must be fourteen or fifteen. “Hi,” she said. “I’m here to speak to Peter. Are you his brother?”

“He doesn’t live here anymore.”

“I see,” Ann said. “Are your parents home?”

“No.”

“Do you know where Peter’s staying, by any chance?”

“He lives in Ventura now.” The boy glanced behind him and then pulled the door nearly closed so that nothing more than a narrow swatch of his face was visible.

“Would that be Henderson? Is the address on Henderson?”

“Yes,” the boy said politely. “What’s this about?”

Ann sighed in disappointment. “Nothing,” she said, walking back down the steps and getting into the car to leave. She was turning on the map light to locate her next stop when something caught her eye. The drapes in the front window moved. Okay, she said, cranking the engine and driving slowly around the block. She parked at the end of the street, then again walked up to the front door and knocked. There might be something going on here. The same young boy answered.

“Sorry to bother you again,” Ann said, “but I’m with the Stanford University scholarship fund. Your brother has been awarded a full scholarship, but we haven’t been able to locate him.” The door opened an inch. Quickly she engaged the boy in eye contact and placed her foot in the door without him realizing it. “It’s a shame, really. We have rules, you know. After a certain period the scholarship is retracted and awarded to another individual.”

Ann watched the boy’s face. He was about to bite. A smile still plastered on her face, she slipped her hand inside her purse and found her gun. “Stanford, of course, is a very prestigious school.”

“Peter,” she heard the boy calling as he disappeared from the door, “you won a scholarship to Stanford.”

This was it.

Ann kicked the door open and jerked her Beretta out of her purse. “Get down,” she yelled at the boy, seeing a dark figure in the background. “Now,” she shouted, advancing quickly and shoving the boy to the ground herself, “Peter Chen, you’re under arrest. If you move even one muscle, I’ll shoot you. I’m serious. I’ll kill you without a second thought.”

A handsome, well-built young man stepped out of the shadows, his hands over his head. “Who in the hell are you?” he said, looking Ann up and down. She was dressed in Levi’s and a denim jacket, looking more like a model for Guess jeans than a cop.

The young man was perfectly calm. Not a single bead of sweat appeared on his forehead, and he looked as fresh and relaxed as someone who had just stepped out of a shower. Staring down the muzzle of a loaded gun, his eyes reflected a cold defiance and superiority. Somehow Peter Chen managed to look elegant standing with his hands over his head.

“I guess you could say I’m your worst nightmare,”

Ann said, grabbing his wrists and shoving him toward the door.

“You,” Chen said, recognizing her. “You’re the probation officer, aren’t you? The one who was shot?” Then he laughed. “Where are the cops?”