Sullivan's Law (21 page)

 

“There's someone in our house!” Rebecca said, her voice shaking. “Look through the window. You can see his back in the mirror.”

“Get down,” Carolyn shouted, whipping her Ruger out of her purse. Shifting the gun to her left hand, she grabbed her cell and hit the auto dial for 911. Before she started speaking, she recognized Frank as he walked into the hallway leading into the kitchen. She told the emergency dispatcher to cancel the call, then disconnected. How did he get a key to the house? She'd changed the locks years ago.

“It's Dad,” John said, walking around in a circle. “I'm not going inside, Mom. He's probably strung out and came here to hit you up for money.”

“Maybe he wants to see us,” his sister argued. “He's not a monster. He won't hurt us or anything.”

By the time they unlocked the back door and went inside, Frank was sprawled out on the living room sofa watching TV. He pushed himself to his feet. “There's my girl,” he said, smiling as he held his arms open for his daughter. “Come here, gorgeous. What happened to your ankle?”

“I tripped,” Rebecca told him.

“Give Daddy a big hug.” Once he released her, Rebecca took up a position beside him, glaring at her brother.

“Aren't you even going to say hello, slugger?”

“Hello,” John said flatly. “Now leave. This is our house. Mom pays the bills. How can you walk in here like you own the place?”

Carolyn sat down across from her former husband. Frank had dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks were concave. His pants appeared several sizes too large. He must have lost twenty pounds since she'd last seen him. She was certain he was under the influence. “How have you been, Frank?”

“Things are tough. I thought I might crash here on the sofa, if that's all right.” He glanced at a cell phone on the coffee table. “I'm waiting for an important call. A lead on a job.”

Carolyn laced her hands together. She knew he was lying. He must be waiting for a call from a drug dealer. It was a delicate situation. Rebecca now had her hand on her father's shoulder. “I'd prefer you didn't stay, Frank. Get in touch with me next week and we'll talk about scheduling a visit so you can spend some time with Rebecca.”

“I have my school picture,” the girl said. “I told Mom to send it to you. She said she didn't have your new address. Want me to go get it?”

Frank ruffled her hair. “Sure, pumpkin. I'd love to have your picture.”

Rebecca picked up her crutches and headed off to her room. John was standing by the doorway, a sullen look on his face. “Mom asked you to leave.”

“Hey,” Frank said, “there's nothing to get worked up over. God knows what your mother's been telling you about me.”

A tense silence fell over the room. Carolyn and John remained motionless. Rebecca returned, handing her father the picture and a thick stack of letters. “Are all these for me, angel?”

The girl looked anxiously over at her mother. “Mom said they were returned from your old address.” She saw the cell phone when her father picked it up. “I thought you didn't have a phone anymore, that you couldn't afford one.”

“I meant a regular phone.” He rummaged around until he found a pen and then tore off a scrap of paper from a magazine, scribbling down some numbers. “Now you can call Daddy anytime you want.”

John went to his room in the garage and slammed the door. Carolyn pretended to watch TV until Rebecca got up to go to the bathroom. “What you're doing is cruel,” she whispered. “Rebecca loves you. So does John. He's angry because he knows you stopped seeing them rather than pay child support.”

“Shit, woman,” Frank told her, flopping back against the sofa, “you sent the dogs after me. I can't pay child support until I get a job. I can't get a job if I'm in jail, know what I mean?”

“How did you get in?”

“I crawled through a window,” he said. “I remembered the alarm code.”

Rebecca came back into the room. “He can't stay tonight,” her mother said. “You've got his number. You can call him tomorrow.”

“Well,” Frank said, his lip curling in anger as he stood to leave, “I guess I'll be on my way. You're cold, Carolyn. What's the big deal if I sleep on the sofa? All I'm asking for is one lousy night. My car's almost out of gas and I'm a little short on cash right now. Besides, my daughter wants me to stay.” He began swaying, grabbing hold of the back of the sofa to steady himself.

Carolyn caught the scent of alcohol. When he got high on cocaine, he started drinking to come down. He staggered toward the door. Rebecca started crying. “He shouldn't drive,” she told her mother. “He might have an accident.”

Removing a twenty-dollar bill from her purse, Carolyn walked over and pressed it into his hand. Frank leaned down and tried to kiss her. She gently pushed him away. If she pushed too hard, he'd fall over backward. “The money I gave you is for cab fare,” she said. “Your twelve-year-old daughter is smart enough to know her father is too drunk to drive. I'll call the cab now. It should be here in five or ten minutes.”

“Thanks, baby,” Frank said, shoving the twenty in his pocket.

Somewhere buried inside the slovenly, reeking shell of a man standing in front of her was the handsome, kind, and genuinely talented writer Carolyn had married. Here and there, she caught glimpses of his former self. He was still young. Most novelists didn't surface until they were in their mid- to late forties. Frank could teach again if he pulled himself together. He had a degree. Perhaps he could find his way back before it was too late.

“Get sober and find a job,” she told him, speaking low so Rebecca wouldn't hear. “I'll put the child support case on hold for a few more months so you don't end up with an arrest record. You were a good teacher, Frank. You've got the rest of your life to work on your writing. It's not easy finding a publisher for your first book. Even Hemingway and Fitzgerald were rejected at one time.” Her choice of authors had been a mistake. Both men had been alcoholics. “You're not only destroying yourself, you're hurting the children. If you keep using drugs, you're going to die.”

Carolyn watched through the screen door as he made his way down the walkway to a battered black Mustang convertible, then fumbled around for his keys. The canvas top was torn so severely that he'd stopped using it. The red seats had stains and mildew on them from exposure to the elements. She had given him the car as a Christmas present twelve years ago, making the monthly payments out of her paycheck. The spiffy new convertible had made him so happy. Every Saturday, he would put on his bathing suit and wash and wax the car in the driveway. He'd looked so much like John in those days—tall, tan, and muscular. She had always been afraid that she'd lose him to another woman. The affairs really didn't matter. She'd lost him to cocaine.

Carolyn went to the kitchen to call a cab. She would have to get locks installed on the windows. She wondered if Frank had been the one who'd vandalized her car, angry that she'd filed a formal complaint against him for nonpayment of child support. It wasn't worth the aggravation. From what she'd seen tonight, he'd have to undergo months of rehab before he could hold down a job.

When Carolyn went outside to check on him a few moments later, he'd already sped off. She stood there a while, the wind blowing her hair back from her face, sad that what had once been so good was now seemingly lost forever. Turning back toward the house, she saw a small white object on the sidewalk. Picking it up, she cupped her hand over her mouth. Inside the house, she opened her purse and slipped Rebecca's school picture inside a side pocket.

She found the girl in the hallway, looking out the window through her tears. “Don't cry, honey,” Carolyn said, lifting the items out of her hands. “I gave your father some money. He'll be fine.”

“No, he won't,” Rebecca shot out, sliding down the wall as she sobbed. “I might not be as smart as John, but I'm not stupid. I saw him drive off from my bedroom window.” She threw a wrinkled up piece of paper at her mother. “I tried to call him. It's not a working number. He lied to me. He doesn't ever want to see us again. John was right. All he wanted was money.”

Carolyn sat down on the floor and rocked her in her arms. What could she say to comfort her? Her father could have an accident and be dead within an hour. She should report him to the police for fear he might kill an innocent person. “Sleep in my bed tonight,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. “I'll make us a cup of hot chocolate. Maybe we'll stay up late and watch a movie.”

Carolyn found John studying at the kitchen table. “He broke out a window in the dining room,” he told her. “I taped up part of a cardboard box until we can get another piece of glass installed. Why didn't the alarm go off?”

Carolyn stood at the sink, staring out into yard. Too much time had passed now for the police to stop him. She would check for accidents in the morning. She hoped he'd run out of gas. “I had the locks changed. I forgot to change the alarm code.”

“Dad's brain is fried,” John said. “How did he remember?”

His mother sighed, turning around to face him. “I used our anniversary. He gave your sister what he said was his cell phone number. She called it and found out it wasn't a working number.”

“Bastard,” he said, standing and grabbing his books off the table. “Do me a favor, okay?”

“What?” Carolyn said, filling up two cups of water and placing them in the microwave for the instant hot chocolate.

John walked toward the door leading to the garage, then glanced back over his shoulder. “Forget the anniversary. I wish you'd never married him. As far as I'm concerned, I don't have a father.”

T
he corporate office for the chain of golf stores owned by Nolan Houston was located in a high-rise office building off Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles. Wanting to make certain Houston was available, Hank had called Monday morning and made an appointment to see him at ten, claiming he was an Internal Revenue agent.

“Works every time,” he told Carolyn, a sly smile on his face. “Tell them you're a cop, and they give you the runaround. Mention IRS and they piss their pants.”

Once they were on the road, Carolyn removed her compact from her purse and dabbed on some lipstick. “Remember the physics professor? The man who bought the house down the street? I asked him to take a look at the papers from Daniel's room at the Comfort Inn. He faxed them to one of his colleagues at Caltech.”

“Oh, yeah?” the detective said, adjusting his rearview mirror.

“I didn't tell him whose work it was,” Carolyn continued. “But get this, they thought he was a candidate for a professorship.”

“You're shitting me.”

“Paul wants to set up a meeting with some of the faculty members at the university. To evaluate Metroix's work, not to consider him for a post at the university. What do you think?”

“I saw Metroix at the hospital Friday evening,” Hank told her. “Granted, he was in pain and doped up on morphine. Don't get me wrong. I feel sorry for the guy, but I don't think he's a genius. I'd be surprised if he could find his way out of a paper bag, know what I mean?”

Typical reaction, Carolyn thought. Daniel's unique abilities were beyond the average person's comprehension. His illness and the time he'd spent in prison also put a dent in his credibility. “All I want is your permission to allow Caltech to evaluate his work. If nothing comes of it, then at least we know where we stand regarding the situation with Warden Lackner.”

“It's Metroix's property,” Hank told her. “Don't you think you should get permission from him instead of me?”

“This could turn out to be evidence,” Carolyn said. “I know the warden isn't one of our primary suspects. What if we rule out Armstrong and Houston, along with Harrison and Downly? Then we're back to square one.”

“So find out what it's worth.” The detective exited the freeway and took the off-ramp leading onto Wilshire. Locating the building, they pulled into an underground structure and parked.

“What do you make of this?” The photo that had been with Daniel's papers had fallen out on the seat when Carolyn had opened her purse. She handed it to the detective.

Hank shrugged. “It's a snapshot of two kids. Why? Do you think it has some bearing on the case?”

“Probably not,” Carolyn said after they'd parked and began walking toward the building. “Rebecca found it on my nightstand yesterday and thought the girl was me.”

They made their way to the twelfth floor where the corporate offices for Hole in One were located. “I'm glad you decided to talk to Houston first,” she told him. “I had a bad experience with Liam Armstrong.”

The detective looked surprised. “You know him?”

“I used to,” Carolyn told him, taking in the large gold letters on the glass doors. “I went to high school with Houston and Armstrong. This is a fancy place, Hank. Look how I'm dressed.” She was wearing a plaid shirt, jeans, and a studded denim vest. “I look like a cowgirl. I doubt if what I'm wearing is customary attire for Internal Revenue agents.”

“Don't worry about it,” he said. “We're going to tell Houston we're cops once we get our foot in the door.”

Nonetheless, Carolyn could tell Hank was also intimidated. They entered the lobby where two attractive young receptionists were seated behind a long console, both of them wearing headsets and speaking on the phone. A distinguished-looking man in an expensive suit, carrying a black leather briefcase, was seated on a sofa thumbing through the pages of a glossy magazine.

A tall, handsome black man dressed in a green golf shirt with the Hole in One logo emblazoned on the front, his arms bulging with muscles, burst through the doors and walked briskly down one of the side corridors.

“We're here to see Mr. Houston,” Hank told a receptionist, pulling out his badge, then placing it back inside his jacket before she had a chance to read the words Ventura Police. He watched as the woman's eyes darted toward the corridor where the man had gone, confirming his suspicions that the individual who'd whisked past them had been Nolan Houston.

A slender blonde with large blue eyes, the woman held up a finger for him to wait until she had concluded her phone call, then moved the microphone away from her mouth. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Houston?”

“Sure do,” Hank said, winking at Carolyn as he leaned sideways against the counter. “We're with the Internal Revenue. I suggest you call your boss and tell him we're here. And you might want to mention that we don't care much for waiting.”

While the woman called Houston, the detective stepped aside with Carolyn. “I don't know about Armstrong,” he whispered in her ear, “but this guy has one hell of a lot to lose.”

 

With floor-to-ceiling windows behind him overlooking the Los Angeles skyline, Nolan Houston glared out at them from behind an ornate desk. His office walls were covered with oil paintings, and several bronze sculptures stood on white marble podiums.

“I could sue you people for misrepresentation,” Houston said, furious. “I was scheduled to play in a charity golf tournament at the Los Angeles Country Club. You may not consider something like that important, but golf is my business.”

“I don't think suing us would be in your best interest,” Hank told him, one corner of his lip curling. “We're here to discuss the death of Tim Harrison.”

Carolyn watched Houston's face, looking for his reaction. He didn't so much as blink. Due to all the years that had passed, she hadn't expected him to remember her. This was a cold, calculating man, she decided. It wasn't surprising that he'd become successful in the business world. Houston might not remember a girl he'd attended high school with, yet how could he forget the tragedy of a young boy's death? He reached for a silver pitcher sitting on a tray, along with four cut crystal glasses.

Nolan Houston poured himself a glass of water, but made no move to offer the same to his guests. “Tim Harrison died twenty-some years ago,” he told them, holding the glass so it obscured the lower half of his face. “Isn't the man who killed him in prison?”

“Right now he's recovering from a gunshot wound,” the detective said, reaching inside his jacket for a toothpick. “You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”

“Of course not,” Houston said, a flicker of fear surfacing. Moments later, the steely look returned. “Was it in the newspaper? I don't recall reading anything. I don't generally follow that kind of thing. Besides, I haven't lived in Ventura for fifteen years.”

Hank stuck the toothpick in his mouth, then moved it from one side to the other, wanting some time to pass before he spoke again. “What makes you think he was shot in Ventura?”

Houston made a jerky movement, causing his chair to squeak on the plastic mat beneath it. His brows furrowed and there was a slight tremor in his hand as he set the crystal glass down on his desk. Carolyn noticed a coaster, but Houston hadn't used it. She exchanged glances with Hank, wondering if he'd picked up on it as well. Little things occasionally revealed more than a person realized.

“I assumed, okay?” Houston said, hissing the words through clenched teeth. “Why are you here, Detective? Certainly you don't think I have anything to do with this man's shooting.” He paused and sucked in a deep breath. “To be perfectly honest, you're not going to find any sympathy here over this Metroix fellow. They should have never kicked the bastard out of prison.”

Carolyn decided it was time she stepped in. “Do you remember me, Nolan? We went to Ventura High together. I dated Liam Armstrong.”

“You dated Liam?” he said, placing his hand on his throat as if he were having difficulty swallowing. “What's your name again?”

“Carolyn Sullivan,” she said. “I'm Daniel's Metroix's parole officer. I believe the same person who shot Metroix tried to run my daughter and me off the road last night. Not only that, Metroix's motel room was wired with explosives. I was there when they went off.”

Hank asked, “Have you seen your friend Liam Armstrong recently?”

“I saw him about two years ago,” Houston said. “Are you going to pay him a visit too?”

Neither the detective nor Carolyn answered. She felt certain Houston would call and alert Armstrong the moment they left his office. What they wanted to know was whether the men had worked in concert, or if only one was responsible for the recent events. Houston clearly had the funds to contract a murder for hire, but would a man of his caliber be callous enough to try to kill a female probation officer? She corrected herself. Success didn't equate to honor and decency. Only a short time and even she had become bedazzled by Houston's opulent surroundings.

Carolyn tried to reach into the past and envision the night of Tim Harrison's death. Liam, Nolan, and Tim Harrison were three of the most popular boys at Ventura High. Because his father was a police chief, the Harrison boy had enjoyed a certain status. As she recalled, all three drove nice cars, wore good clothes, and the girls were all dying to go out with them. The very nature of the game of football may have additionally played a role in the crime. It was an aggressive sport in which players were taught to take advantage of their opponents' weaknesses. They might never know what had happened in the days preceding Tim Harrison's death. Maybe one of the boys had taken a tongue lashing from a coach, or something else had occurred to make him feel inferior. What better way to pump up a wounded ego than to pick on a mentally ill individual like Daniel Metroix, whom fate had placed in their path?

She seriously doubted if Liam or Nolan had intended to kill their friend. Overall, however, their actions had been despicable. After beating and degrading Metroix, the situation must have gotten out of control. Daniel had recalled the three boys fighting, even claiming that he thought it was Harrison who set them off, upset that his father might find out what they had done. An elbow here, a misplaced slug, or a charge like she'd seen on the football field—it wasn't hard to imagine how Harrison could have gone flying into the dimly lit street, not providing an oncoming driver with adequate time to brake. Not only was she convinced that Liam Armstrong and Nolan Houston had failed to tell the truth about their assault against Daniel, she believed they'd allowed the man to sit in prison for twenty-three years for a death they had more than likely caused.

For Houston to say he had no sympathy for the person he'd used as a scapegoat made Carolyn feel like ripping his throat out. Once again, she glanced around his office, deciding he didn't deserve so much as the glass he'd selfishly sipped his water from.

“What about Charles Harrison?” Houston said weakly, the prolonged silence from the officers having served its purpose. “If anyone wanted Metroix dead, it was Tim's father. Liam and I were worried he might shoot the guy in the courtroom.”

“Right,” Carolyn said, giving him a look of contempt. All these two boys had been concerned about was themselves.

“Chief Harrison is dead,” Hank said. “He died Friday night.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Houston told them, staring at a spot over their head as he struggled to regain his composure. “What about his wife? Did she ever come around? She had a nervous breakdown. Tim was their life. Right after he got killed, Mrs. Harrison had to have a hysterectomy. After that, she was never the same. Maybe if they'd been able to have another child, it would have been easier to accept what happened.”

Hank stood, then tilted his head toward the door, letting Carolyn know it was time for them to leave. They were halfway across the room when he turned around, catching Houston already reaching for the phone. “New information has come to light,” he said. “Daniel Metroix swears you, Tim Harrison, and Liam Armstrong attacked him that night. He even recalls the Harrison boy arguing with you after you beat up Metroix.”

“That's a damn lie,” Houston barked, a line of perspiration popping out on his forehead.

“Since someone has attempted to take Metroix's life, as well as Ms. Sullivan's,” the detective continued, “the investigation has been officially reopened. Of course, now there're three new crimes involved. You're an intelligent man, Houston. Didn't you think the truth was going to come out eventually?”

Nolan Houston froze, the phone clasped in his hand. The blood drained from his face. “I need an attorney,” he mumbled without thinking.

Hank flung open the door, then waited for Carolyn to pass. He leveled his finger at Houston. “If anything else happens to Carolyn Sullivan, I'll come gunning for you myself. Are we clear, Houston?”

Once they were in the elevator, Carolyn asked the detective, “What do you think?”

“Dirty,” he said, popping his knuckles.

“Are you certain?”

A bell pinged as the doors to the elevator opened on the ground floor. “Nothing in life is certain,” Hank told her, his face softening into a fatherly expression. “At least we accomplished something. If Houston is guilty, he'll think twice before he tries to hurt you or your family again.”