The Dead Room (32 page)

Teddy eyed the district attorney, then looked back at the monitor. The snake was still rattling its tail. It hadn’t struck yet.

A second black and white image appeared on the screen. Within a few moments, another pastoral setting gave way to a second nude. Teddy noted the blond hair, the common bone structure, and realized it was the same model. She was wilted on the floor, the melancholy as overwhelming as the first painting they’d seen. But the work was also beautiful, like the warmth of a fire burning under the mantel on a string of rainy-day afternoons.

“I believe there’s a third,” Andrews said. “This one in particular caught my eye.”

Teddy winced at the district attorney’s smooth delivery. Andrews was enjoying the moment, his slickness coming off like grease. Teddy tried to get a grip on himself, but it didn’t work. As an image of a slow moving river painted in moonlight began to fade, he recognized the face, the body, even the tattoos rising to the surface.

It was another nude. But this time he knew the model. It was Darlene Lewis.

Teddy staggered back as if he’d been hit, and everyone turned. He looked away, moved to the light tables, took in the sheets of X-ray film as he caught his breath. He tried to remember what Holmes had said the first night they met. Darlene Lewis used to let him look at her. But it hadn’t been about sex. Holmes had been studying her body for his painting.

“I’d like to thank you,” Andrews said in a quiet voice.

Teddy could feel the district attorney standing right behind him now. He held a file in his hand. He opened it and tossed it on the light table.

“I spoke with your client last night,” Andrews said. “He confessed to the murders of Darlene Lewis, Valerie Kram, and ten other women. This is a copy of his statement. You’ll notice his signature on page ten.”

Teddy felt the snake’s teeth pierce his skin, the venom freely entering his bloodstream. “You can’t talk to Holmes without permission from his attorney,” he said. “You broke the law, Andrews. This paper isn’t worth shit.”

“But I did have permission from his attorney,” Andrews said. “Not you, Teddy Mack. Holmes’s lead attorney. Barnett offered his advice and consent. He listened to the confession over the telephone.”

It felt like a knockout punch. Like he’d been tossed from a moving car and dragged over the concrete at high speed. Teddy paged through Holmes’s statement, unable to read it. When he turned the statement over, he froze. On the bottom of the file was a copy of their profile. The profile he’d sent to Barnett in his hospital room. Teddy’s note to the man was still attached.

“Apparently you thought the killer was an artist,” Andrews said. “Thanks for making my case.”

“He is an artist, Andrews. He’s just not this artist. You’ve bungled another one. You’ve got the wrong man.”

The district attorney chuckled. “You’re young, Teddy Mack. You’ve got a lot to learn. Better luck next time. Barnett needs verification that the x-rays exist. Next time you talk to him, tell him what you’ve seen.”

Teddy felt the poison enter his heart and shoot through his body. He flashed a hard look at Andrews, hoping he had enough inner strength not to strike the man. The district attorney couldn’t hold his gaze and stepped back. Teddy shook his head, still stunned. He thought of Holmes’s fragile mental state and knew his client would’ve agreed to anything if he was told it might stop his nightmares. He thought of Barnett selling them out and betraying them in order to make the deal. When he glanced at Powell, he saw her wipe something away from beneath her eye and turn away.

FORTY-EIGHT

Teddy sat in the museum coffee shop, mulling over the aftermath of the explosion and filled with self-doubt. Andrews had a complete case now. He had the physical evidence linking Holmes to two murders. A witness who saw Holmes running away from the Lewis house. A painting of Darlene Lewis in the nude. And now he had a confession. Alan Andrews was a slime bag, but he had everything he needed to put Holmes away for the rest of the man’s life.

Barnett’s betrayal was a different story.

Teddy still couldn’t believe what Barnett had done. He thought he knew the man. He thought he’d been a good judge of character his entire life. Yet there it was in Holmes’s statement. Teddy looked away from the file Andrews had given him, wondering what kind of man would sell out his own brother-in-law. A member of his family who needed him.

He felt sick.

Powell entered the coffee shop and gazed at him from the doorway. After a moment, she stepped up to the counter, ordered a cup of decaf, and sat down on the other side of the table.

“You okay?” she asked.

Teddy nodded even though he wasn’t. He wasn’t sure who was worse, Andrews or Barnett.

“I didn’t know about this, Teddy. Not until this morning. Alan wanted to keep it a surprise.”

He gave her a look. He believed her.

Still, the implications of the deal between Andrews and Barnett stabbed at his soul. The confession meant that the FBI would be out before they even got in. He could see Rosemary Gibb modeling for the painter with bad teeth who liked to order caffe lattes. The girl trying to hold on with no one looking for her. Time running out, and Rosemary not making it. The killer having his way with her, doing things to her with the knife, her lifeless body submerged in water when he was through.

“What about the manager at the coffee house?” he said. “He wasn’t describing Holmes.”

“No, he wasn’t,” she said. “But Holmes was in prison when Rosemary turned up missing.”

“Did you mention that to Andrews?”

She nodded. “He doesn’t think they’re related. People turn up missing every day. Besides, the confession changes everything.”

Teddy lowered his eyes.

“I know it’s hard,” she said. “You gave it a good shot. I’ve gotta get back to the office. But think it over, Teddy. The evidence is overwhelming. Read your client’s statement. I’ll give you a call this afternoon. Maybe we can meet somewhere and talk.”

She hadn’t touched her coffee. She started to get up, then sat down again.

“I did a little checking on my own,” she said. “The night Barnett was run over, Andrews attended a fund-raiser.”

Teddy came up for air. “What about Michael Jackson?”

“He went with him,” she said. “He likes free food.”

FORTY-NINE

Teddy pushed the doctor out of the room, slammed the door shut and flipped the lock. When he heard the doctor start pounding with his fists from the other side, he ignored it and turned to face Barnett. The window curtains were drawn, and Barnett was still confined to his bed in the darkness. He looked frightened, but he couldn’t move—his legs held together by that array of metal pins and hardware.

Teddy knew he should have gone straight to Nash and told him about Holmes’s confession. But Barnett had acted something like a father toward him ever since Teddy joined the firm. A mentor. Barnett had taken a special interest in his career, guiding him through his introduction to the legal profession. Teddy had trusted the man and admired him and made the mistake of emulating him. Now he was nowhere.

The banging stopped, followed by shouting from the hallway. Teddy moved to the window, jerking the curtain open and flooding the room with light.

“What are you gonna do?” Barnett said, shaking.

Teddy looked at the IVs in the man’s arm. He felt like pulling them out, watching Barnett squirm his way into the void where he belonged. He glanced at the chair, but didn’t sit down. For a moment he thought about his college loans, but only long enough to count up his debt. One hundred and ninety thousand dollars. Teddy didn’t care anymore.

“I closed the deal,” Barnett managed. “The death penalty’s off the table. Holmes will get the care he needs. He’ll live, for Christ’s sake.”

“Stop pretending that this is about helping Holmes,” Teddy said. “This is about you. It’s always been about you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your little secret,” Teddy said. “Your brother-in-law. The minute the story showed up in the papers, you folded. You don’t even care if he’s innocent or not. All you care about is you.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Are you afraid they’ll hear me? They already know. Everybody does. The Veggie Butcher and Jim Barnett are brothers.”

Barnett cringed. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

“I came here to ask you the same question. Who the hell do you think you are?”

“My name’s Jim Barnett,” he said through clinched teeth. “And I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“You sure do. That’s why you sold Holmes out from the beginning. You were embarrassed. You made the deal thinking you might contain the secret. Holmes never had a chance. Not with a brother like you.”

“Stop calling him my brother,” Barnett shouted. “He’s always been strange. He’s an oddball. He’s a freak.”

Teddy gave Barnett a long look, deciding that he’d let what was just said pass for now. “How did you convince Andrews to make the deal?” he asked.

“It was easy. They did the x-rays yesterday. When Andrews told me what they found underneath the paintings, I told him about the profile you and Nash put together. I think it caught Andrews by surprise. He seemed shocked by it and wanted to see it. He said he thought he needed a confession. We worked the deal out in five minutes. Holmes confessed in less than two.”

“Thanks for letting me know.”

Barnett looked away and seemed to shrink. “That was Andrews’s idea,” he said after a moment. “I needed to know that what he told me about the paintings was true.”

Teddy grimaced, burying the scope of the betrayal as deep as it would go. “So now you’re saved,” he said. “You can host another treasure hunt and gloat over your picture in the society pages. If I were you I’d hire someone who knows how to handle the press. They’ll need to turn you into a victim. Tell the whole story from your point of view. You can handle the interviews from here. A picture of Jim Barnett in his hospital bed should go a long way. Holmes hurt everyone. Even you.”

“Larry Stokes already has someone in mind,” Barnett said. “You should know better than me why I did everything I could to keep the story from getting out. Look what happened to you after your father’s arrest.”

It hung there. Teddy standing motionless.

“That’s right,” Barnett said. “I know all about your goddamn father. That’s why I asked you to help me with Holmes. You’re a loser, Teddy. You don’t get it. Wake up and smell the roses. Your father’s arrest for murder ruined you and the reputation of your family. No matter what the truth was, is, or will be, you will always be Teddy Mack, the son of the architect on the Main Line who murdered his business partner. I asked for your help not because I thought you might bring something to the case. How could you at your age? I asked for your help because I thought you’d toe the line just like every other asshole who’s running from the truth. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Everything you did made things worse. Now get out and toe the line.”

The door burst open. Teddy was lunging for the bed when two security guards grabbed him from behind and tackled him down to the floor.

FIFTY

The aftermath. The done deal. It had been so ugly.

Teddy sat at the jury table and stared at the pictures of the missing look-alikes tacked to the wall. They seemed so far away. The confession changed things. Whether it was true or not, Holmes’s statement and signature on the document had a certain weight about it.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Nash asked from his desk.

“I’m okay.”

“What about something stronger?”

Teddy shook his head, then turned to the door as Gail Emerson, Nash’s assistant, entered the room with a cup of coffee. Her eyes were puffy and she appeared as upset as they were. She set the cup on the table before Teddy, wouldn’t take no for an answer, and gave Nash a worried look as she left the room. Teddy liked Gail, and sipped the coffee. It tasted fresh and hot, and he appreciated the kind gesture.

Nash cleared his throat. “Barnett shouldn’t have said those things to you, Teddy. I’m sorry. Did he fire you?”

“I don’t know yet. He’s still bedridden. They’ll need someone to do the paperwork and sit at the table with Holmes. I’m not sure anyone at the firm really wants their picture taken beside a serial killer.”

Nash flashed a warm smile. “I’d say you’re right about that.”

“What about Rosemary?” Teddy asked.

“As far as I’m concerned, nothing’s changed. We already knew something was going on between Holmes and Darlene Lewis. Now we know what it was. The confession, based on the man’s state of mind, isn’t even worth reading. But we’re alone. Westbrook called when the bureau got the news from the DA’s office. He’s upset. He said he’ll do anything he can to help, but it will have to remain unofficial now.”