Sleeping Beauty (21 page)

“I don't know what being in that coma did do to her. Maybe you'll be lucky and she'll change. But the Casey I knew was a self-centered, vicious bitch.”

Coleman rolled up his sleeve. Ashley saw a series of faint, circular scars.

“Cigarette burns,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “Know how I got them? We had an argument one night. I can't even remember what it was about. We'd been drinking and we probably both said some shit to each other. I passed out. When I came to I was naked and handcuffed to the bed.” He pointed at the scars. “These aren't the only ones. I got them all over my body. They hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Your mom said she did it to teach me manners. Know what she did after she got tired of hearing me scream?”

Ashley shook her head.

Coleman flashed a humorless smile. “She left the house with me still cuffed to the bed. At first, I was sure she'd come back and we'd make up. We'd fought before and that's the way it always ended up. But she left me to die.”

Ashley's eyes widened. Coleman could see that she didn't believe him.

“I was chained up on that bed for a day and a half. No food, no water, lying in my own piss. The only reason I'm here is because a friend of mine dropped by to tell me my boss was mad that I missed work. He heard me screaming and got in through a window. Otherwise I'd be dead.”

Ashley felt sick and scared. She hoped that Coleman was exaggerating. She couldn't believe that Casey could be that cruel. Ashley was also tempted to confront him and ask why he had followed Casey to Portland if she was that awful. Of course, she knew the answer to that one. He wanted Casey's money. And she didn't confront Coleman because she owed him her life.

“That sounds awful,” was what she did say.

“It was the worst experience I ever had,” Coleman said. He had a faraway look in his eyes and an odd tone to his voice that made Ashley think that he was telling the truth.

“Well, kid, I wish you luck. You're gonna need it with that bitch for a mother.”

“That's one bitter man,” Ashley said when Coleman was out of earshot.

“You'd be bitter too, if your shot at millions of dollars just went down the toilet,” Jerry said.

“It has,” Ashley answered, “and I'm not bitter at all.”

Jerry threw his head back and laughed. “You are one amazing woman.”

During the walk across the parking lot to his car, Jerry seemed preoccupied. When they were ready to leave the lot he didn't start the engine right away.

“What's wrong?” Ashley asked.

“Nothing's wrong. I've just been thinking. You have to pay rent every month on that apartment, which is an okay apartment, but not that great. And I've got this house I'm living in that's really too big for one person.”

Ashley stared at Jerry for a moment. Then she frowned. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

“Yeah. That's what I was getting around to.”

“For a lawyer, you can be pretty inarticulate at times.”

“So?”

Ashley leaned across the seat and kissed her attorney. “I'd love to shack up with you, Jerry.”

T
wo guards led a heavily manacled Joshua Maxfield into the contact visiting room. The smaller of the two guards jammed his baton into the prisoner's ribs to prod him forward, even though it wasn't necessary. The other guard said nothing. Maxfield knew that it was no use protesting and maintained a stoic silence.

Eric Swoboda, Maxfield's new attorney, unreeled from the plastic chair on which he was sitting. He was basketball-player tall, with a weightlifter's neck and a defensive lineman's girth. His head was huge and his jaw jutted out like a granite shelf. They had already met when Maxfield was arraigned on escape-and-assault charges stemming from his attack on Barry Weller. In light of what he'd done to his last attorney, Maxfield suspected that his new attorney's physique had been the main reason that the presiding judge had appointed him. Joshua hoped that the behemoth's brainpower was commensurate with his size.

The guards left the visiting room, but another guard stood in the corridor and watched the attorney-client meeting through the window. Swoboda started to offer his hand but stopped when he realized that Maxfield's hands were chained in a way that made it impossible to extend them more than a few inches.

“Looks like they got you trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey,” the lawyer said.

“I would appreciate it if you could get the court to ease some of its restrictions,” Maxfield answered in a reasonable tone.

“I'll try, but don't get your hopes up. Everyone gets real uptight when your name is mentioned.”

Maxfield looked down, a shy smile on his face. “I guess I have no one to blame but myself.”

“Say, before I forget,” Swoboda said, “I read
A Tourist in Babylon.
” Maxfield looked up expectantly. “I don't read much fiction, but I liked it.”

“Most people did,” Maxfield said, smiling with relief.

“I heard that the book won a lot of awards.”

“Yes, several,” Maxfield said proudly. “It was a national bestseller, too.”

“You wrote another book, didn't you?” Swoboda asked.

“
The Wishing Well
,” Maxfield answered, his smile ebbing.

“I hear it didn't do as well as your first book.”

The smile disappeared. “The critics were too stupid to understand it, so they panned it,” Maxfield answered bitterly. “The pack always tries to bring down someone who has risen too high, too fast.”

“How come you waited so long to write a new book?”

Maxfield colored. “Writing can't be rushed. I'm an author of serious fiction. I don't churn out potboilers. I'm not a hack.”

“The DA included a copy of your new book with the discovery. I read a little of it. It doesn't sound that high-minded.”

“You have to understand what I am trying to do. My book is an exploration of madness. How does the human mind really work? How can a man look normal, marry, have children, and appear to be just as sane as you or I, yet have a demon within him that compels him to commit unspeakable acts? That is what I am exploring, the depth of the human soul.”

“Yes, well, Delilah Wallace thinks you're describing murders that you committed.”

Maxfield's fists clenched. “I am an artist. Artists use their imagination to create on paper a world that is as real as that which exists around us. If she believes that what I've written is real, I have succeeded as an
artist. But the crimes in my novel are the product of my imagination. If I actually killed those people it would be a betrayal of my art. My book would be no more creative than a reporter's account of a traffic accident. Don't you see, I could never do what she is suggesting? It would be a complete betrayal of my craft. I am innocent of these murders.”

“I talked to Barry Weller. He says you claimed you were innocent right up until the minute you coldcocked him and stole his clothes.”

Maxfield flushed. “How is Barry? Not still mad at me, I hope.”

“You hope in vain. Every time I mentioned your name I had to listen to a string of swear words I didn't know you could hook together in one sentence.”

“I'm sorry I hurt him, but I was certain I'd be convicted if I went to trial. I needed time to find the evidence that would clear me.”

“And did you?”

“I know who murdered Terri Spencer and tried to kill Casey.”

“Let me hear it,” Swoboda said, trying hard to keep from sounding sarcastic.

“Randy Coleman. He's Casey's husband. If she dies before the divorce becomes final, Coleman inherits millions. That's why he tried to kill Ashley Spencer. As Casey's daughter, Ashley will inherit a substantial portion of Casey's estate. With her dead, Coleman gets all of it.”

“Coleman says that he stopped you from killing Miss Spencer.”

“He's lying. It's the other way around.”

“Who do you think a jury will believe, Coleman or the man Ashley Spencer saw standing over Casey Van Meter holding a bloody knife?”

Maxfield started to answer the question, but he realized how lame any protest would sound. His shoulders slumped and he sagged on his chair.

“And why would you want Ashley alive?” Swoboda asked. “Her testimony can put you on death row.”

“As long as Casey is in that coma I need Ashley alive.”

“Why is that?”

“Miles wants to pull the plug on his sister and Coleman needs her dead so he can inherit her money. Ashley is the only person who wants to keep her alive.”

“Why is keeping Casey alive important to you?”

“She's the only one who knows what really happened in the boathouse. She's the only witness who can clear me. You'll see if she ever comes out of her coma.”

Swoboda smiled. “She has. That's why I'm here.”

Maxfield looked stunned.

“Casey Van Meter came out of her coma yesterday. Delilah Wallace called me with the news. She was at the nursing home this morning.”

“Did she tell them I didn't do it?”

“Right now Ms. Van Meter isn't saying anything. I guess she's pretty groggy.”

“When are they going to question her about the boathouse?”

“I don't know. I'll be notified when they do.”

“That's great. She'll tell them I didn't kill Terri.”

“I hope so for your sake. Because I don't see any other way of winning your case.”

E
ric Swoboda was the only addition to the group that had met at Sunny Rest on the morning of Casey Van Meter's resurrection.

“I'm going to set some ground rules, just as I did the last time I permitted Ms. Van Meter to have visitors,” Dr. Linscott told them. “Only a few people will be allowed to visit. I don't want my patient to be overwhelmed, especially when she's going to be asked about a very traumatic event. Miss Wallace represents the prosecution and Mr. Swoboda represents the defendant. Miss Wallace wants to have one of the investigating officers with her, so I'm going to let Detective Birch go in with her. That's it.”

“Mr. Coleman is Ms. Van Meter's husband,” Anthony Botteri said. “He should have a right to be with his wife in this stressful moment.”

“We don't let relatives sit in when we question witnesses in homicide cases,” Delilah told Coleman's lawyer.

“You've let Miles Van Meter visit and….”

Dr. Linscott held up his hand. “Mr. Botteri, my patient asked to have her brother visit. She had a very negative reaction to your client the last time and has specifically asked that Mr. Coleman not be permitted in her room.”

“She's confused, doctor,” Randy Coleman said. “She just woke up from a five-year-long coma.”

“And she's still not fully recovered from her ordeal. That's why I'm excluding everyone but the people I've named.”

Dr. Linscott looked at the detective, the defense attorney, and the deputy DA. “At the slightest sign of a problem, I'll terminate the interview. Is that understood?”

Delilah, Eric Swoboda, and Larry Birch nodded their assent, and Dr. Linscott led them out of the conference room.

 

The television was on and Casey was still in bed, but she turned her head as soon as Dr. Linscott opened the door. Her color was better and she seemed to be more alert.

“Good morning, Casey,” the doctor said.

“Good morning,” she replied.

“I've brought some people who want to talk to you. Do you feel up to having visitors?”

Casey turned off the set. “I'm glad you brought them. I've been getting tired of having nothing to do but watch TV.”

“This is Delilah Wallace, a deputy district attorney in Multnomah County,” Dr. Linscott said. “This is Larry Birch. He's a detective who's helping Miss Wallace with a case. And this is Eric Swoboda. He's an attorney who's representing someone involved in the case.”

“Is this about me, how I got here?” Casey asked.

Delilah was pleased at the speed with which Casey figured out the purpose of their visit. This woman was able to think fast and appeared to be in charge of her faculties. That was going to make it hard for Swoboda to argue that Casey's memory had been affected by her coma.

“You're right, Ms. Van Meter,” Delilah answered. “I'm here because of the attack that put you in your coma. Do you feel up to answering some questions about it?”

Suddenly Casey looked drained. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the pillow.

“Ms. Van Meter?” Delilah asked, concerned by the rapid change.

Casey's eyes opened. “Let's get it over with.” She sounded resigned to having to discuss the incident in the boathouse.

“You're certain it's okay?” Delilah asked. “We don't want to do anything that might harm you.”

Casey stared at Delilah. Her gaze was firm. “Ask your questions,” she said, and the DA sensed an inner strength that boded well if Casey had to testify in court.

“I guess the best way to handle this is to just ask you what you remember about the night you were knocked out.”

Casey started to say something, but she stopped dead, turned pale, and brought her hands to her face.

“Casey?” Dr. Linscott asked.

She shook her head, as if she was shaking off a terrible dream, and then took a deep breath.

“It's okay,” Casey assured the doctor.

“Is Terri Spencer dead?” Casey asked Delilah.

“Yes, ma'am,” Delilah answered as she suppressed her excitement. Van Meter was going to remember it all and they were going to nail Joshua Maxfield's coffin shut.

Casey took a deep breath. “I was hoping…. But I knew in my heart that she didn't survive. It's my fault. If I hadn't asked her to meet me she wouldn't be dead.”

Delilah's heartbeat quickened. “Who killed Terri, Ms. Van Meter?”

Casey looked at her. She seemed puzzled. “Why Joshua Maxfield, of course. Didn't you know that?”