Sullivan's Law (28 page)

“Yes,” Carolyn said, shaking his hand. “Thanks for helping us.”

“Glad to be of service,” the officer said politely. “Try to stash the firepower somewhere where you can get your hands on it fast. Just make certain if anything goes wrong, Downly or whoever is working with him doesn't get to it first. When I put your stuff in the closet in the master bedroom, I found a drop-down ladder that leads to the attic. It's your decision, but that's where I'd put it. Just keep your service revolver by the bed.”

 

Fast Eddie was not allowed to call his employer on his cell phone.

Didn't the stupid bitch realize that there were only a limited number of functional public phones left? In a few years, they'd be obsolete. He'd gone to six different locations. In one, the receiver had been missing. Another one, the box that held the coins had been smashed in with an industrial sized wrench. The thieves had left the wrench. Thinking it might come in handy, he'd tossed it in the trunk of the black Nissan he was presently driving. Here and there, he'd been picking up various tools as well as license plates. He'd swiped the plates from towing yards, selecting the least likely car to be claimed. Most of the towing companies subcontracted with the city. Their fees were exorbitant, quickly mounting up to the cost of the vehicle. He now had twelve clean plates.

Because he was wanted by every law enforcement agency in the country, with bulletins listing him as armed and dangerous, Eddie changed the plate on the Nissan every four hours. When driving, he never exceeded the speed limit, never changed lanes without using his turn signals, never followed too closely, and never failed to yield the right of way. Cops couldn't stop every black Nissan they saw, particularly without probable cause. They had to rely on license numbers. Regardless, in a day or so, the Nissan would be history.

As to his appearance, Eddie could no longer pass himself off as a fairly clean-cut teenager, what had easily deceived Carolyn Sullivan's son. One of his personal idols was the serial killer Ted Bundy. But even Bundy had made mistakes. He'd only killed women, and many of the women had similar features. A professional killer, like himself, knew never to establish any kind of pattern. No FBI agent would ever come up with a profile on him.

Admittedly, he'd screwed up with Luisa Cortez. He'd given thought to trying to eliminate her, but it was too great a risk. Her testimony wasn't important if Sullivan had told him the truth. A DNA match was impossible to beat. He opened his shirt and looked at the faint red marks on his chest. All they needed was a hair follicle, a minuscule piece of flesh, a drop of blood, saliva, or any other kind of bodily fluid.

First, they had to catch him. After the rape, he'd made the mistake of setting up a meeting with a drug dealer at a barbecue joint where he'd bussed tables before Sullivan had stopped keeping tabs on him. Finding out the girl was alive had disturbed him and he'd wanted to get high. Anywhere he'd been before, he now had to avoid.

After the incident at the hospital, Eddie had switched to the look made famous by the white rapper from Detroit who called himself Eminem. He wore a blue knit cap pulled down low over his ears and forehead, a long-sleeved, oversized T-shirt and loose-fitting, low-slung jeans. He scribbled song lyrics with a ballpoint pen on his palm.

At least the lady allowed him to call collect. He dialed the number from memory. She quickly accepted the call by saying “yes” to the voice automated system.

“I haven't located Metroix yet,” Eddie told her. “I called the hospital, pretending I was his brother. I chatted up a nurse and she told me the police had taken Metroix somewhere in an ambulance.”

Madeline Harrison was sitting in a comfortable beige recliner in her room at Fairview Manor. “They moved Daniel Metroix along with Carolyn Sullivan and her two children to a private residence in Pasadena.”

“When did this happen?”

“This morning, while you were sleeping or committing another despicable crime.”

“Look, lady,” he said, raising his voice, “I wasn't sleeping. My partner and I were parked on the street near Sullivan's house before eight o'clock this morning. For guys like us, that's pretty damn early. They must have left before we got there. After an hour, we had to take off or the cops would have spotted us. Since you seem to know everything, why didn't you tell me in advance that they were moving them to Pasadena?”

“Do you want to get paid?” Madeline Harrison said. “I refuse to tolerate disrespect from a disgusting worm like you. Go to Pasadena and take care of the man who killed my son. Once I have proof that he's dead, you'll receive a quarter of a million dollars in cash.”

“What's the address?”

“I don't have the address,” she told him. “If I knew the address, I wouldn't need you. I'd kill the man myself.”

“Great,” Eddie thought, slamming the receiver down on the hook.

Madeline called her husband in Boston. “How did it go with the doctor today?”

“Okay, I guess,” Charles Harrison said. “I'm on the list for a liver under the new identity. I would have had a better chance if I'd stayed in L.A.”

“You'll be fine,” she answered coolly. “Have you spoken to Boyd Chandler?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Is Metroix dead?”

“No,” she said. “The police moved him to an unknown location in Pasadena. I just spoke to Eddie Downly, instructing him what to do.”

“What about the life insurance companies? Are they giving you any flack?”

“Things are progressing smoothly. The attorney I hired, Carl Myers, called me today. The police have no evidence of foul play. He advised the insurance agent that I need the money in order to take care of my expenses here at Fairview.”

“You're still going to meet me once this is over?” Charles asked anxiously. “I mean, that was our plan. I don't want to go under the knife alone in a strange city. I might never wake up.”

Madeline sighed, pulling the lever to recline her chair. “Oh, Charles,” she said, staring at a chip in her fingernail polish, “why is everything so melodramatic with you? People have successful liver transplants every day. The chances of anything happening are minuscule. If you were so afraid of undergoing an operation, you should have stopped drinking years ago.”

Harrison erupted, “Maybe if you'd stood beside me as my wife instead of living at the fancy place they call a hospital, I would never have developed a problem with alcohol.”

“Your father was an alcoholic, Charles,” Madeline said. “I only asked one thing of you over all these years. All I want is that awful man to die. He stole our lives when he killed Tim. Then the prison gave him special treatment. How could you allow that to happen?”

“I can't control what goes on inside prison,” Charles shot out. “I kept him behind bars for twenty-three years. Whether you realize it or not, that wasn't easy. I sprang Eddie after Boyd took off. Boyd did a decent job on the motel. He got Metroix inside and hired a demolitions expert to booby-trap the room. How did I know the Sullivan woman was going to be there to rescue him? Boyd had to leave town for a while until things died down. People know him. He used to be an officer at the Ventura PD.”

“You have an excuse for everything,” Madeline said. “Can you get in touch with Boyd?”

“Yeah, I've got a contact number for him. Are we sticking to the last plan?”

“Yes,” she said crisply. “Once Metroix is dead, I'll instruct Eddie where to meet Boyd for the payoff. I want that man dead. He raped an eight-year-old child.”

“You want everyone dead,” Charles mumbled under his breath. He worshipped his wife, but she'd controlled his life ever since their son's death. She lounged around at the hospital, having people wait on her hand and foot. He was certain she manipulated patients as entertainment. She used to come home for the weekend and make love to him. She'd tried to get him to have Metroix murdered at Chino. He'd made a few attempts. His position made it difficult to work within the prison system. The local jails were easier. Eddie had been brought to him by an LAPD officer he'd known for years, after arresting him in possession of a large quantity of methamphetamine. He had given Eddie the option. He could either work for him or have his probation violated and serve a year in jail. How could they have known he would rape a child? Sure, he'd been busted for a sexual offense. He'd read the original report and wasn't even certain a crime had been committed. Eddie and his victim, the teenage girl who had lived next door, were only two years apart in age. His story that they were girlfriend and boyfriend had seemed plausible. And it had only been fondling. He hadn't had sex with the girl. Once he'd been arrested for the rape of Luisa Cortez, Charles had no choice but to arrange his release. He couldn't take a chance that Eddie would expose him. All he'd done in the motel job was pose as a clerk. Handing the DA a deputy chief might not have gotten him a reduced sentence, but it would have bought him something. Sean Exley, the Ventura DA, was up for reelection. A major story would have served him well.

“I've already talked to Boyd,” Charles told her. “He's prepared to take Eddie out. The price is a quarter of a million, the same number we placed on Metroix's head. Do you have that much available in your personal account, or do we need to wait for the insurance to pay off? I paid Boyd, Eddie, and the demolitions man for the motel job. I have less than a hundred left from Tim's trust account. I'll have to pay for the transplant, remember? The hospital bills will be enormous, and that's not including the surgical team. I can't use my health insurance.”

“Dead men don't have health insurance,” Madeline said. “Don't worry, Charles, I have more than enough money. Once Eddie kills Metroix, I'll meet Boyd and pay him half the agreed upon sum. Boyd will get the rest as soon as he kills Eddie. After that, it's finished. I'll get on the next plane to Boston.”

T
heir first evening in Pasadena was uneventful. Isobel made fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and homemade biscuits. Afterward, Rebecca sprawled out on the floor in the living room while she watched one of Lucy's DVDs.

Daniel ate in his room on a tray. Carolyn joined him for dessert, a delicious key lime pie. She was surprised when she saw John poke his head in the doorway. “If you guys are talking, I can come—”

“No,” Carolyn said, eager to see John, warming up to the man he'd previously resented. “I was about to go upstairs to make some phone calls.”

She quietly closed the door behind her, feeling a rush of exhilaration. Perhaps good things did come when a person least expected them. Climbing the stairs to the master bedroom, she plugged her cell phone into an electrical outlet to keep the battery from going dead and dialed her brother's number.

“My show's tomorrow night,” Neil said. “You're going to pick up Mother, right?”

“Don't you ever read the newspaper?” Carolyn asked. “John was kidnapped yesterday. A police officer was shot.”

“Why didn't you call me?” Neil said. “Is John all right? Where are you now? I'll come over.”

“We're not at the house,” Carolyn told him. “And I can't tell you where we are, just that we're safe.”

“What do you mean you can't tell me where you are?” Neil exclaimed. “I'm your brother, for Christ's sake. The least you can do is tell me what happened.”

Carolyn gave him a rundown of the events of the previous day. “Don't worry,” she added. “They'll catch Downly. Be cautious, though, Neil. If he figures out you're my brother, he may come after you to get to me.”

“Wow,” Neil said, “that really makes my day. What does this guy look like?”

Carolyn described Fast Eddie. “I'll call Mother and tell her you'll pick her up at nine in the morning.” Before Neil could complain, she disconnected and called her mother.

“Listen, Mom,” she said, “something serious has come up with my job. Neil's going to pick you up at nine in the morning and spend the day with you. I won't be able to come to his show.”

“You're not coming to your brother's show!” Marie Sullivan said. “Surely the probation department can't keep you from something this important. Your brother will be shattered. And what will people think?”

Carolyn was thankful her mother didn't subscribe to the Ventura newspapers. When she wasn't socializing with her friends, she spent her time reading science magazines, watching educational programs, and working on chemistry projects in her basement. “You know I wouldn't miss Neil's show unless I had to, Mother. We're going to be in and out, so don't worry if you can't reach us at the house. Until I tell you otherwise, call me on my cell phone. Oh, and don't believe everything you hear.”

“What does that mean?”

Carolyn had hoped she could withhold the fact that her grandson had been kidnapped. Her mother was in good shape for her age, but she had a heart condition. She couldn't take a chance that one of her friends would tell her. She explained the situation, insisting that they were safe and that she needn't worry. “I'll call you after Neil's show, okay? He's going to pick you up tomorrow morning at nine.”

“This is terrible, Carolyn,” Marie Sullivan said. “I want you to quit that job. It's too dangerous. Promise me. You and the children can live with me until you locate some other kind of work. I have three bedrooms and the schools here in Camarillo are excellent.”

“I can't quit my job, Mother,” Carolyn said. “In a few years, I'll have my law degree. This was an isolated incident. It won't happen again. Call Neil, so you can figure out what to do about tomorrow. I know he's home because I just talked to him.”

“When will I see you?”

“I can't say for sure,” Carolyn said. “Hopefully, we can get together next weekend. I love you, Mother. Have a nice time at the show tomorrow. I wish I could be with you.”

Carolyn went downstairs, surprised that Daniel's door was still closed. She found Isobel in the kitchen engrossed in a paperback novel. “I need to check the schedule for Daniel's medications.”

“Don't worry about it,” Isobel told her. “I'm right across the hall. I'll take good care of him.”

Carolyn took a seat at the table, seeing Isobel closing her book as she prepared to retire for the evening. “What was Paul's wife like?” she asked. “You don't have to answer. I'm just curious.”

“Penelope,” Isobel said, scowling. “That woman thought she was a queen or something. She never thought about anyone other than herself, even little Lucy. Didn't deserve a good man like Professor Leighton. This is her house, you know.”

Carolyn was taken aback. “You mean she still lives here?”

“Not anymore,” Isobel said, walking over and returning with a platter of brownies and a stack of napkins. “Help yourself,” she said, setting the plate down in the center of the table. “You're a skinny little thing. Need some meat on your bones.”

Carolyn patted her stomach. “The meal was delicious,” she told her. “Trust me, leave those brownies on the table, and my kids will make them disappear. You said this is Paul's ex-wife's house. I'm beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable, Isobel.”

“Penelope hasn't lived here in years,” the woman told her, taking a brownie and placing it on a napkin. “She inherited this house from one of her relatives. She grew up here in Pasadena. This was just a place for fancy friends to stay when they came to town. She lives in a mansion in Malibu now with her new husband, ugliest man you ever laid eyes on.”

“Why did she marry him, then?”

Isobel ate the brownie, then swept the crumbs off the table with her napkin. “Money, honey,” she said. “And the man's a plastic surgeon. Keeps her tuned up like one of those Rolls Royce cars she drives. Last time I dropped Lucy over there, her face was so tight, she couldn't even smile.”

“But I don't understand,” Carolyn said, bracing her head with her hand. “If she had money, why did she marry an ugly man? Certainly not just to have plastic surgery. She could have paid for that without getting married.”

“Old money doesn't last forever,” Isobel explained, a wise look in her eyes. “Half of the maids around here have more money in their savings accounts than the old fools who live in these big houses. People born into this kind of life don't work. They consider it beneath them. We call them coupon clippers. Meaning, they live on whatever their mommies and daddies left them. Their houses are usually paid for, so all they got to do is pay the taxes and upkeep.”

“Some of these houses are worth millions,” Carolyn said. “Why don't they just sell them?”

“The younger ones do, then they go through the money. These people spend like there's no tomorrow. That's how they were brought up, see.” Isobel paused, stretching her arms out on the table. “The older folks never sell. This town is their life. They're born here and they die here. To sell and move away to another city would be like you packing your family off to Siberia.”

“Speaking of family,” Carolyn said, having grown fond of the woman, “have you ever been married?”

“Oh, I was married,” Isobel said, a slight catch in her voice. “My husband ran off after my son was born. Never heard from him again. That was it for me and men.”

“Where's your son?”

She blinked several times before answering. “Otis is dead.”

“I'm sorry,” Carolyn said, remembering Lucy saying something about visiting a cemetery. “What happened, if you don't mind me asking?”

“Murdered,” Isobel said, wiping a tear away. “I owned a nice little house in Los Angeles. I had myself a job working for the post office. You work for the government. You know those kind of jobs don't come easy. A man broke into my house in the middle of the night. He shot Otis in the back while he was sleeping. I used to blame myself 'cause I let Otis move the TV set into his room.” She glanced down at the paperback book. “My parents didn't have television. Momma said the only way we'd ever get ahead in life was to learn how to read. She was right, you know. That's what helped me pass the civil service exam. Otis was all I had, so I spoiled him. You know what the sad part is?”

Carolyn took a deep breath, but she didn't speak.

“If the TV hadn't been in his room, my son might still be alive. That murdering thug shot my Otis for a lousy TV set. He shot him while he was sleeping to make certain he couldn't identify him.”

“How old was Otis when he died?”

“Fourteen,” Isobel said. “This coming Sunday would have been his thirty-third birthday. After Otis was murdered, I quit my job and moved out of the city. I met Professor Leighton in the grocery store. I've been with him for eighteen years. He and Lucy are my family.”

Carolyn wondered why Paul had placed Isobel in a situation where her life might be threatened. “Are you afraid? You know, because of what's been going on with us?”

“Listen, sugar,” Isobel said, her face shifting into hard lines. “Nothing scares me these days. You couldn't have a better person looking after you. If a pin drops in this house at night, I hear it. Someone comes around looking for trouble, they're going to be mighty sorry.”

“Thanks,” Carolyn said, walking over and kissing her on the cheek. “Having you here makes me feel everything's going to be all right.”

“Of course it is,” Isobel told her, standing and stretching her back. “You're with the right people now.”

 

Before she headed upstairs, Carolyn went to the living room to peek in on Rebecca. “Don't stay up too late,” she told the girl, walking over and kissing her on the top of the head.

“Why not?” she asked. “We don't have to go to school tomorrow.”

“You brought your books, didn't you?” her mother said. “You'll just study the next chapter in every subject.”

“You've got to be kidding,” the girl protested. “The teachers skip around. I might end up doing a bunch of work for nothing.”

“Not for nothing,” Carolyn corrected her. “Anything you learn is of value. I know you've got a reading list for extra credit. I'll send Isobel to the library.”

 

John was seated in a recliner across from Daniel's bed. “I was fooling around on the Internet,” he said. “In school, we've been studying the
Columbia
disaster. I never knew Richard Feynman was on the presidential committee that investigated the
Challenger
disaster. That kind of thing really wasn't his speciality. You know, aerospace.”

“He was one of the best physicists around,” Daniel told him, propping the pillows up behind his head, “even though he didn't have any experience with the space program or the shuttle itself. At the time, he was battling cancer. Are you interested in hearing the story?”

“Sure.”

“Feynman was visiting a friend who was a car buff. The guy had a couple of carburetors on the table, and mentioned to Feynman that the carburetors leaked when it got cold. The two men then wondered if cold might have created a problem with the O-rings on the
Challenger.
”

“The temperature dropped too low on the day of the launch,” John said. “NASA didn't know the temperature was going to affect the O-rings. Anyway, that's what I read.”

“They weren't completely unaware there was a problem with the temperature,” Daniel said. “They just didn't know all the facts. This is where physics gave them their answer. Feynman proved his point during a session of the
Challenger
commission using nothing more than a glass of ice water.”

“You're kidding,” John said, completely enthralled.

“All the generals and bigwigs were in the room, and they were passing around a cross section of the shuttle joint. Rather than just glance at it and pass it on like everyone else, Feynman took out his tools and dismantled it. He removed a piece of rubber from the O-ring, compressed it with clamps, and then dunked it into the glass of ice water. That's why I said this afternoon that he was a colorful character. Most people wouldn't have had the guts to start taking apart a piece of evidence, particularly not in that setting.”

“My friends don't understand anything about physics,” John said, impressed. “They think I'm some kind of weirdo, that all it amounts to is a bunch of stupid math.”

“Physics is everything,” Daniel said, adjusting his bed linens. “Of course, that's just one man's opinion.”

John stood, tilting his head and smiling. “You're pretty cool,” he said. “I can see why my mother went to bat for you. I'd like to talk to you some more while we're here, if you're sure you don't mind. I mean, you're supposed to be getting well. I don't want to bother you.”

“You can talk to me anytime you want,” Daniel told him. “There weren't many inmates at the prison who were interested in physics.”

 

After the children went to bed, Carolyn jumped on the Internet in Paul's office to see what she could find out about Madeline Harrison. She assumed the couple were married in Ventura, so she checked newspaper articles a few years before their son had been born.

An article announcing their engagement popped up. She stared at the couple's faces. Charles Harrison had been a nice-looking man, but his future wife had been gorgeous. The writeup said that Madeline's parents were both doctors who practiced in Los Angeles, and that she'd graduated from Cornell University with a degree in anthropology. She wondered how a woman with her background had met and married a police officer. Love, she assumed. No wonder she'd seemed so sophisticated.

If Madeline's parents had been doctors, she might very well have money of her own. She'd have to call and tell Hank. It had seemed too far-fetched to believe Mrs. Harrison had hired someone to kill Daniel. They couldn't rule her out as a suspect any longer.