Hold Still (24 page)

Whitman folded his hands on the table. “With the case you’re working on. The rape. I saw you on the news.”

“You rapists belong to some kind of support group or something? What are you telling me? You know the guys I’m looking for?”

Whitman shook his head. “No. I don’t. You said you have very little information on the unknown suspect.”

“So?”

“You had the other guys in custody before—they didn’t give you anything?”

Jocelyn rolled her eyes again. “If you think I’m going to discuss the details of an open investigation with you, you’re fucking crazy.”

Whitman nodded, conceding her point. “Okay,” he said. “But it’s a crucifixion, right?” She stared at him as though he had completely lost his mind. He forged ahead. “A few years after the rape, your father defended that kid from Society Hill. He was seventeen, I think—old enough to be tried as an adult. He was accused of killing his mother and crucifying her. Turned out two men did it. Her husband had left her for a younger woman. She kept the son. She had a generous amount for child support but not enough to support her habit—she was a drug addict. She started prostituting herself for drugs. The son, he saw most of it. He even got into it with a couple of her dealers. Then one day, one of her trysts went a little too far.”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

“The men—they crucified her and the son saw it. Of course, no one believed him when he said it was two black men. They thought he was making it up—typical rich white racist. Your dad’s investigators found the men—got one to turn on the other. They said that the son watched them and didn’t try to stop them. They said the kid was aroused.”

He paused, staring at her face, waiting for some sort of reaction, but she gave him none.

“It’s about the fantasy,” he continued patiently. She imagined this was the same tone he used to give lectures. “The son developed some sort of paraphilia—his sexual arousal is triggered by something atypical, something others would consider extreme. In this case, I believe it is the mutilation and humiliation that gratifies him sexually. He is attempting to re-create the fantasy. Tell me, does the third subject in your case participate in the crime? Sexually? Or does he only participate in the crucifixion?”

Jocelyn tried not to show her shock at how close Whitman had come. She didn’t answer his question. Taking a page from the book of just about every suspect she’d ever interrogated, she asked her own question instead. “You think this is the only crucifixion case to come down the pike? Happens more than you think.”

“But this is so similar—a wealthy woman, two black men. The third man, the white man, he doesn’t participate, does he?”

Jocelyn stared at him, silently hoping her face didn’t betray her.

“As I said, it’s about the fantasy,” he went on when he realized she was not going to answer his question. “These women are surrogates for his mother. He’s replaying the scenario over and over again for sexual gratification. None of his victims were prostitutes?”

Jocelyn sighed. “I’m not doing this Hannibal Lecter shit with you. Either you give me a name or I’m out of here.”

“I don’t know his name. It wasn’t released. Your dad fought hard for that.”

Jocelyn grasped the doorknob again. “Then we have nothing to talk about. I should not have even wasted this much time on you.”

She opened the door to the interrogation room. For the first time, his eyes widened and moistened with desperation. He stretched his upper body, leaning toward her. “Detective, please,” he called. “Please.”

She turned her back on him and walked out of the room.

FORTY-SEVEN

November 9th

Raeann Church walked up and
down Orthodox Street, pulling her hoodie over her head and shrugging it off again. It was dark, although the street was well lit, and a few other people made their way along the sidewalk. Her feet were freezing. The sneakers she’d gotten from the donated clothes at the halfway house were tight on her feet. She didn’t have any socks. And she was starving.

She didn’t want to go back. She’d spent a few days on the street, thinking that anything could be better than the house on Orthodox. She hated that place. It smelled like mildew, and the paint peeled off the walls in every room. She’d been in rent-by-the-hour motels that were cleaner and better smelling. The food there wasn’t much better. But after three nights in the cold, it was looking nicer and nicer. Of course, she’d really have it coming to her, having gone AWOL for three days. But she could take her punishment in a warm place with a full belly.

As she neared the corner of Orthodox and Tacony, the smell of hot food drifted out of Angelina’s Pizzeria. Pizza. Cheesesteaks. French Fries, maybe. What she wouldn’t do for a big, extra-cheesy piece of pizza. Her mouth watered. She stopped before she reached the door. She couldn’t bear to look in there and see what she couldn’t have.

She dug inside the pockets of her hoodie and pulled out seventy-eight cents and three bus tokens. Not enough for pizza. Not enough for a soda. At least she still had a few smokes left from the cops that had come to see her last week. She pulled out the crushed pack of reds. There were two left. No lighter. She turned back and walked toward the Melrose Pub. A few guys stood outside smoking. Two of them looked like they were in their twenties. Their skin was thick and deeply bronzed, arms covered in faded-color tattoos.
Roofers
, she thought.
Or landscapers
. The third guy was older with a large paunch and a trucker hat pulled low over his brow. He eyed her as she walked up to them. She didn’t like what she saw, so she ignored him and approached the younger men. “Can I get a light?” she asked.

Wordlessly, they each offered their lighters. She took the one closest to her and lit her cigarette. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” the guy said. He gave her a slight smile and turned back to his friend. They began discussing the Philadelphia
Eagles in earnest. Raeann drifted away from them and leaned
against the side of the building. She was wondering if she could get one of them to buy her a pizza when the shadow of the third, older man fell across her feet.

“Hey, girl,” he said. Girl. Of course. He was already making her smaller, reducing her, letting her know that he would talk to her—he’d probably even fuck her—but he’d treat her as if she were less than.

Raeann ignored him, turning her head and looking down the street as if she were waiting for someone. He stepped closer, his body blotting out the glow of the streetlight. He stunk like beer. Too much beer. “I ain’t seen you around here before,” he said.

She met his eyes, thrust her chin up at him defiantly. “’Cause I ain’t been around here and I ain’t staying.”

He laughed softly and stepped closer to her. “Relax, girl,” he said, his voice smooth and low. The roofers were too engrossed in their conversation to overhear him. Raeann shot a glance at them. Soon they’d be finished with their cigarettes and they would go back inside. She had to get away from this creep before they left her alone with him.

“You workin’?” the man asked, his beer breath hot on her face.

She blew smoke back into his face. “Not right now,” she said pointedly. She shifted away, sliding against the concrete wall, her hoodie catching on the uneven paint job.

He caught her arm, wrapping his fingers around her biceps. She pulled away. “What the fuck?” she said loudly.

The roofers, who were partway through the bar door, stopped and looked back at them. “Everything okay?” one of them called.

The creep pulled back and put both hands up, as if in surrender. A small smile played on his lips, sending a chill straight up Raeann’s spine. “Everything’s fine,” he said. “Just fine.”

While the creep was focused on the roofers, she turned on her heel and strode away from the bar, trying to keep a brisk pace without actually running. When she reached the corner, she looked back toward the Melrose, but all three men were gone.

She sighed. Her stomach growled loudly. So much for pizza.

“Hey,” a man’s voice called. She looked toward the street. A black Lexus had pulled over, the passenger’s side window rolled down. Cautiously, she approached.

“You okay?” the man asked.

Raeann leaned down and peered inside the car. It was too dark to see his face well, but she could make out a smile and the glint of his eyes. She glanced over her shoulder. The sidewalk was still empty. “Yeah,” she said. “I just—I was just having a smoke is all.”

The man motioned over his shoulder, toward the Melrose. “Those guys bothering you?”

Raeann swallowed. What could she say? The older guy made her skin crawl and touched her arm? That wasn’t really bothersome in most people’s books. She shook her head. “No. Just bumming a lighter.”

Again, her stomach growled. She was glad it was relatively dark and he couldn’t see her face flush. “You hungry?” he said.

“No, no, I just—”

“It’s okay,” he said. “Look, I just pulled over because I saw you hauling ass away from that bar. You looked spooked. If you’re hungry, I can drop you off at the pizza place down the street.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “Thanks, but I don’t got no money.”

A ten-dollar bill appeared from the darkness. He held it out to her, across the passenger’s side seat. The heavy, silver watch on his wrist gleamed in the light cast by the streetlights overhead. She could just make out the MK on it. Expensive. Like his car.

Her insides twisted. Here it was. In her world, nothing was free. Nothing was without a price. There was no kindness. A rich man in a fancy car didn’t stop a woman like her on the street to come to her aid. There was really only one reason a man like him would stop for a woman like her. She wondered what he was going to ask her to do, and if she would do it for ten dollars. It wouldn’t be the first time, but she was trying to clean up.

Sensing her hesitation, he placed the bill on the seat next to him. “It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t want anything. I’m just trying to be nice.”

She smiled weakly and thrust her hands into her hoodie pockets. “Nobody’s nice.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

There was a long moment of silence. Raeann listened to the sounds of cars driving up and down Orthodox.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll get going. Take care of yourself.”

He shifted the car into Drive. Raeann’s heart leapt into her throat. She was so damn hungry. So what if he did want something from her? It couldn’t be anything worse than the things she’d done for ten dollars in the past. She clapped her hands onto the passenger’s side windowsill. “Wait,” she croaked. “Okay, okay. I really am hungry. Angelina’s is right back there.”

He flipped the locks up. “Hop in.”

She slid into the seat and pulled the door closed. “Thank you so much,” she said as he pulled away. Immediately, she felt warmth beneath her. Heated seats. Maybe she wouldn’t have to go back to the halfway house tonight. “I really appreciate this,” she added.

“No problem,” he replied. He looked over at her and smiled. As they passed under a streetlight she could see his face plainly. Her breath froze in her body. She tried to move air in and out of her lungs, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. Her mouth was so dry it felt as if it were full of cotton. In her lap, her hands trembled violently.

Before his fist made contact with her face, she had time for two words. “It’s you.”

FORTY-EIGHT

November 9th

Simon answered on the third
ring.

“I just talked to Zachary Whitman,” Jocelyn said without preamble.

Hesitation. So he recognized the name. She kicked her foot lightly against the wall outside the bank of SVU’s interrogation rooms. She glanced up and down the hall. It was blessedly empty except for Caleb, who stood several feet away, signing off on a report for one of his detectives. She had confirmed James Evans’s arrest with him as soon as she’d emerged from talking with Whitman. Thankfully, he didn’t ask her for details about the “encounter” Whitman had mentioned.

“How long have you known about the rape?” Jocelyn asked.

Simon sighed. She pictured his brow wrinkling, the vertical line appearing over the bridge of his nose. “Your mother came to me a few years after it happened. You had already left Princeton to join the academy. Jocelyn, please come to my office. We need to talk about this.”

“Zachary Whitman is being charged with multiple counts of child pornography. James Evans has been charged as well, and Michael Pearce was arrested and charged for exactly the same things right before he killed himself. Do you know anything about that?”

A long silence. Then, “Are you asking me as my niece or as a cop?”

Jocelyn’s heart raced, her stomach dropping to her feet. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to stay focused. “Well, that answers my question,” she murmured.

“Jocelyn, if you come see me we can talk about”—he hesitated—“things.”

He was arguably the best defense attorney in the city. He wasn’t going to say anything to incriminate himself, even to her.

“We’ll talk about that later. First, I need something from you. My father defended a juvenile about seventeen years ago. He was accused of crucifying and strangling his mother. They lived in Society Hill. He was exonerated. It turned out two drug dealers did it. Ring a bell?”

“No, but that was a long time ago, your father’s case. We’ve had a lot of cases over the years. I’d have to look through our files, if they even go back that far.”

“I need the name of the kid.”

“Jocelyn, unless you have a warrant or a court order—”

She snorted. “Really? You want to talk to me about the law? You? After I just got done talking to Zachary Whitman? His prostitute lover carjacked me and accosted me in the Wawa. Olivia was in danger twice because a crane appeared at his house a few months ago.”

Silence.

“You get me the name. Then we’ll talk about ‘things.’ ”

She hung up.

Caleb watched her. He approached her slowly, as if he was afraid she might lash out. He wasn’t far off. She wanted to put her fist through a wall. She concentrated on keeping her hands still and on her breathing, like she had learned in anger management.

“So this guy is saying you planted evidence of child pornography on his computer to get revenge on him for raping your sister?”

Jocelyn rubbed her temples with her fingers in a futile attempt to stave off the headache she felt coming on. “He’s saying someone planted evidence and, yes, he thinks it’s because of the rape since the other living, nonincarcerated rapists also went down on child porn charges.”

Caleb regarded her steadily. “You think your uncle did it?”

Jocelyn dropped her hands to her sides and shrugged. “If Whitman is telling the truth—he’s innocent and someone planted evidence—then it would have to be Simon. My sister is a junkie. She can’t think past her next score, let alone hatch an elaborate plot to frame these guys for child porn. That only leaves Simon. He certainly has the resources to do it. He wouldn’t do it himself, obviously. He’d hire someone—probably someone he defended. I’m sure he’s defended his share of burglars.”

Caleb grimaced. “If Whitman is innocent—”

Jocelyn held up a hand to silence him. Her head pounded. “I know, I know. I’m not going to protect Simon, if that’s what you’re worried about. If he framed those men, he needs to be held accountable—even if they deserve to go to prison. My parents gave them a pass nineteen years ago. Nothing will change that.”

Caleb touched her cheek briefly—a furtive movement, dropping his hand before any passing detectives could see. She looked into his eyes.

“I can see why you didn’t go to their funeral,” he said softly.

Her throat felt hot and thick. She didn’t speak.

Finally, Caleb said, “You really think this old case has to do with the Maisry and Grant cases?”

“I have no idea, but at this point we’ve got nothing more to go on.”

“But even if you get a name we’d have to connect it to the case.”

Again, she shrugged. “Then we will. Look, we’ve got less than nothing on this guy. Raeann Church, the only person besides Donovan and Warner to see his face, is missing. We haven’t picked up Warner and Donovan, but even when we do, they are not rolling on this guy. I will see what I can dig up. Anything I find, I’ll turn over to you.”

Caleb tried a smile, but it turned into a grimace. He motioned toward the interrogation room, where Whitman still sat. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no idea. I didn’t—”

She shook her head and smiled sadly. “It’s okay. How could you have known? It’s not something I tell many people. It’s not something that usually comes up.”

Caleb laughed nervously. “I guess not.”

He glanced up and down the hall before leaning into her, one hand against the wall above her head. She lifted her face to his, concentrating on his laugh lines and his wide mouth. His lips hovered near hers. “I’d really like to see you again,” he said. “In a way that is completely unrelated to these cases.”

“Me too,” she said. “Me too.”