Sullivan's Law (11 page)

Hank laughed caustically. “Listen,” he said, becoming serious again, “I might not agree with you on this Metroix fellow. I don't make threats and I certainly don't arrange for police officers to destroy private property. I realize you've been through the wringer, but you're out of line.”

“Think about it,” Carolyn said, running her hands through her hair. “Metroix certainly didn't smash up my car and leave a death threat. The man's in jail.”

“Like I said last night,” he told her, “he may have a crime partner. We're going to check and see if anyone else was released around the same time. A lot of these cons pair up when they leave the joint.”

Police and corrections officers worked in the same arena, yet their areas of expertise differed. “How long has it been since you visited a prison?” Carolyn asked. “My guess is Chino released fifty inmates the same day they released Metroix. Everyone's all hot and heavy to lock these guys up. No one gives much thought as to where we're going to put them. Half the prisons in this state are so overcrowded they're under state mandate to release people prior to the completion of their sentences. The whole thing is turning into a farce, a revolving door.”

“Metroix didn't do a quick turnaround,” Hank reminded her, unwrapping a toothpick and sticking it between his teeth. “He was in long enough to have an entire prison gang behind him.”

Carolyn crossed her arms over her chest, then stomped on a snail on the sidewalk to release her frustrations. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man standing near the curb. At first she assumed it was Neil, even though she hadn't expected her brother to get there that fast. Ten minutes to Neil generally meant an hour.

Carolyn stared at the man. She estimated his height at around six feet, and from what she could tell, he was slender and fit. He wasn't muscular like Brad, but his clothes hung nicely on his body. Wearing a white, loose-fitting shirt and gray slacks, his salt and pepper hair was pushed behind his ears. It must be naturally curly, she thought, seeing a few ringlets on his neck and forehead. His skin was fair, an interesting contrast against his dark hair. As he moved closer, she noticed that his eyes were a pale shade of blue. This had to be her son's new pal, the esteemed Professor Leighton. Even though he had a broad smile on his face, he squinted in the bright sun. She doubted that he spent a great deal of time outdoors.

Why was he home during the middle of the day, she wondered? John had told her he taught at Caltech. Not only that. Why, she asked herself, had he bought a house in Ventura? Caltech was located in Pasadena, almost a two-hour drive away.

Carolyn moved only inches from the detective's face. “Metroix served such a long sentence because someone made certain of it. Don't patronize me, Hank. You know what's going on here. Maybe when Charles Harrison heard that I refused to violate Metroix's parole, he hired some goons to bash my car in to scare me off.”

“Proof, Carolyn,” the detective said. “You can't throw those kinds of accusations around without backing them up. Harrison's a respected man in this city.”

“I had my doubts about Metroix,” Carolyn said, deciding not to tell him about her phone call to the warden until she did more research. “With the way things are shaping up, I'm almost certain he was railroaded. Are you covering for Harrison, along with every other cop around? The way you're acting, I'm beginning to think you are. Give Harrison a message, okay? Tell him the next time anyone steps foot on my property, their brains are going to end up on the pavement instead of my windshield.”

Hearing a voice behind her, Carolyn spun around.

“You must be Carolyn Sullivan,” the man she'd seen earlier said, extending his hand. “My name is Paul Leighton. Your son—”

Carolyn cut him off, not wanting the detective to get the idea that John was involved. “Nice to meet you,” she said, forcing a smile. “Excuse us for a moment, Hank.”

The detective shook his head in amazement. “This man may have seen the people who wrecked your car. Now you're going to try to keep me from talking to a possible witness.”

“I'm sorry, Officer,” Leighton said politely. “I didn't see anything worth mentioning. I assume you're a police officer,” he added, glancing over his shoulder at the two other men. “You must be a detective, I guess, since you're not wearing a uniform. Forgive me. I'm not well-versed in police matters.”

“Detective Hank Sawyer,” he said, squeezing the man's hand and pumping it. “As you can see, Mr. Leighton, we're investigating a crime here. Any information you could provide us would be appreciated.”

“I did hear a lot of racket around ten o'clock,” Leighton offered. “I thought it was the garbage truck. To be honest, I forgot what day of the week it was.” He massaged his hand, as if Hank's handshake had been painful. “When I'm working, I tend to tune out interference.”

“I see,” Hank said, sizing up Leighton. “What type of work do you do?”

“Well,” he said, obviously not an overly talkative person, “right now I'm attempting to finish a book.”

“I gather it's not a detective novel,” Hank said, chuckling.

“No, no,” Leighton said, laughing. “I'm on sabbatical. I teach physics over at the university.”

Any mention of physics was enough to send the detective off to speak with the other officers. Carolyn gently took the professor by the elbow, leading him toward the front of her house. Physicists and inventors, normally a rarity, were suddenly in abundance. She wondered if Leighton did most of his writing by hand, the reason he'd cringed when Hank had given him one of his bone-crunching handshakes.

“It was really nice of you to look after John and Rebecca last night,” she said, taking a seat in one of the white wicker chairs on her front porch, then gesturing for Leighton to do the same. “As soon as I get a handle on things, we'd love to have you and your daughter over for dinner.”

“Oh,” he said, lowering himself into the chair next to her. “I was happy to help out. Who do you think did this to your car? Was it related to the incident at the motel or a random act of vandalism?”

She shrugged. “No one knows at this point.”

“I wasn't aware there were any problems in this neighborhood,” he said, brushing his finger under his nose. “I have a home in Pasadena. I decided that distancing myself from the university for a while might make my work move along faster. You know,” he added, lowering his eyes, “when you've been affiliated with an academic community for as long as I have, people have a tendency to intrude on your privacy.”

Her son had been right, Carolyn told herself. From what she could tell, Leighton appeared to be an interesting and decent man. And of all days for her to meet him. She looked like a bum off the street. No makeup, her hair dangling in wet strands from the shower, and she was dressed in a drab gray T-shirt and a pair of John's baggy Levi's with rips in the knees. She'd plucked them out of the laundry basket, hoping the rips would minimize the pressure on her injuries.

Carolyn had to admit that there was an aura of elegance about the professor. Maybe she was attracted to him because he was the antithesis of Brad Preston.

“My brother is on his way over. I'm going to have to make arrangements to rent a car,” she said, watching as the police loaded the Infiniti onto their flatbed to transport it to the crime lab. “This really is a good area. After last night, you must think I attract trouble.”

“I understand you're a probation officer,” Leighton stated, swatting a fly out of his face. “That means you deal with criminals on a regular basis.”

“More or less,” Carolyn told him. “But I've never ended up with them in my driveway. Hopefully, this will be the first and last.”

Paul Leighton sat quietly, staring into space. Obviously, he possessed another rare trait—he was comfortable with silence.

“John really enjoyed visiting with you,” Carolyn spoke up. “I'm certain he told you about his aspirations to attend MIT.”

“I have an extra car,” the professor said. “I'm saving it for when my daughter gets her driver's license. You're free to borrow it until you make other arrangements. All it's doing is gathering dust in my garage. Running the engine would keep me from having to recharge the battery whenever I get around to driving it.”

How sweet, she thought. “I couldn't really,” she answered. “You've done enough. Anyway, thanks again.”

“No, please,” Leighton said, his voice elevating. “Lucy was angry at me for making her switch schools. Rebecca introduced her to all her friends the other day. Lucy wants to have her spend the night when they'll have more time together.” He paused, rubbing his hands on his thighs. “It's not easy raising a child by yourself. Of course, according to your son, we're in the same predicament.”

Carolyn felt comfortable, as if Leighton were an old friend. “If you're absolutely certain,” she said, “I might consider taking you up on your offer. Because my purse was destroyed in the explosion, I have to reconstitute my identity. I don't think I'll need the car for more than a day. I'm adequately insured in case something happens.”

“Come with me,” he said, standing. “You can take the car now.”

“My brother and I may be able to figure something else out,” Carolyn said, removing a piece of paper and a pen from her purse. “Write down your number. I'll call you if I need to use your car. Are you sure I'm not imposing?”

“Not at all,” Leighton said, flashing a broad smile. “What are neighbors for?”

N
eil arrived forty minutes late, roaring into Carolyn's driveway in a burgundy Porsche.

The police had already left and she was waiting on the front porch. At six-three, her brother resembled her father—large, expressive dark eyes, a narrow face with chiseled features, unkempt black hair, and a boyish way about him that made women either want to mother him or jump into bed with him. Neil was so slender he looked as if he hadn't had a decent meal in months. Carolyn wished she shared his metabolism. He ate everything in sight and never gained a pound.

She glared at him. “What took you so long?”

“Oh, you know,” Neil said, a sly grin on his face, “unfinished business from last night.”

“Unfinished business named Melody, I assume,” she said, rocking in the white wicker chair. “When you were a baby, Mother used to say you had your days and nights mixed up. You used to cry all night and sleep all day. You haven't changed. The only difference is you paint all night and have sex all day. I wish I could live the way you do. My life's a disaster.”

“Let's go inside,” he said. “What's this about an explosion?” He glanced back at the driveway. “Where's your car? I thought it broke down.”

“The police towed it,” Carolyn answered. “Didn't you listen to anything I told you on the phone?”

“Not really,” Neil admitted, opening the door to the house for her. “I didn't go to sleep until seven o'clock this morning. I dropped everything when you insisted I take John and Rebecca out to eat last night. Melody and I were supposed to meet some people for dinner. Instead, she ordered a pizza and watched a movie by herself. I had to make it up to her. That's why I took so long—”

“Spare me the details,” Carolyn said, conjuring up images of Neil and Brad sitting around discussing their sexual escapades. How could a woman who had the face and body of an angel also own a Porsche? It wasn't fair.

Once they were inside, Neil draped an arm around her shoulder. He patted her on the back, then yawned. “Everything's going to be all right. Make me a cup of coffee.”

After reminding him that she'd broken the coffeepot, she made him a cup of instant. He took a few sips, then dumped the rest in the sink. “Come on,” he told her. “We'll go somewhere and have breakfast.”

“I don't have time,” Carolyn told him, describing the events of the past twenty-four hours. “I need to rent a car, Neil. My purse was in the hotel room. I don't have any money, credit cards, even a driver's license. You can use your credit card to rent me a car, but if you list me as a second driver, I'll have to show them a valid license.”

“Where do you have to go?” he asked. “I'll drive you. I have to be back by three to drop off the paintings at the gallery in L.A. I didn't want to bring the van for fear someone would rear-end me.”

Carolyn thought of Daniel and how desperate he'd been to save the designs for his inventions. She was angry the police had arrested him without her consent on a parole violation. “One of our neighbors offered to loan me his spare car. I guess I'll have to take him up on his offer. I might get tied up at the jail. It's past one already.”

Neil had a curious expression on his face. “Is someone trying to hurt you or something? You look okay to me.”

“I shouldn't have bothered you again. I know you're busy. Everything will be fine, like you said.”

“Hold on,” he said, raising a palm. “I admit I've been anxious lately, but if someone's causing you a problem, all you have to do is tell me how to find him. I'll go over and set him straight. Nobody messes with my sister.”

He pulled Carolyn into his arms, hugging her tightly. She probed his abdomen with her finger. “I can feel your ribs, Neil. Have you been eating?”

“Like a horse,” he told her. “Forget about me. Tell me who's bothering you. I can have Melody drive the paintings to L.A. Let's take care of this sucker.”

Carolyn stood on her tiptoes, kissing his forehead. They'd always looked after each other. She stroked one of his hands, separating each of the fingers. They were large, almost brutish. She saw the paint stains on his fingernails, and smelled the distinctive odor of turpentine. Years ago, she'd bought a book of Michelangelo's paintings and sculpture, marveling at the artist's ability to depict the raw strength in the hands of a working class man. She'd told her brother he had Michelangelo hands. Her mother had mistakenly thought she was referring to Neil's paintings, one of the reasons she'd started telling everyone that he was the contemporary Michelangelo.

“You're not going to slug anyone with these hands,” Carolyn said, releasing them. “I carry a gun, remember? If they come back, I'll shoot them.”

Her brother smiled mischievously as he headed for the door. “I had fun with the kids last night, but you still owe me a pie.”

Carolyn laughed. “Does it have to be homemade? I can buy you three pies if you want.”

“Hey,” Neil said, winking, “a deal is a deal.”

 

At two-fifteen Wednesday afternoon, Carolyn pulled Paul Leigton's ten-year-old blue BMW convertible into the parking lot at the government center complex. Walking in the direction of the jail, she fingered her county ID in the pocket of her jeans. Luckily, she kept it in her briefcase instead of her purse. The bank had taken only fifteen minutes to issue her a new instant teller card. Getting a duplicate driver's license and a new MasterCard would be more time-consuming.

“I'm here to see Daniel Metroix,” she said at the window, holding her ID up to the glass so the jailer could see it.

“He's in the medical wing, Sullivan,” said Chris McDougal, a black deputy in his late twenties. “You'll have to interview him another day.”

“Why's he over there?” she asked. “Because of injuries he sustained last night?”

“Hold on,” the deputy told her, opening another file on his computer. “Says he was transferred in from Good Samaritan. According to our records, there's nothing physically wrong with him. He went psycho or something this morning.”

“No!” Carolyn exclaimed, assuming Daniel had come unglued when he'd found himself back in jail. She also wondered if it was time for his monthly medication. Even a psychotic break was possible under the circumstances. She tried to recall what he'd told her about the new drug he'd been taking. All that stood out in her mind was that the drug was administered by injection. A chemical that went directly into your bloodstream could cause serious problems if the patient suddenly stopped taking it. “I have to see him,” she said. “He's my parolee. I have a right to see him even if he's in the infirmary.”

“Look,” McDougal told her, “when this guy went berserk, it took five of our people to subdue him.”

“Get your supervisor,” she said. “And as soon as you call him, I need to see Metroix's booking jacket.”

A number of jailers were milling around behind the glass partition. McDougal left and returned a few moments later with a metal folder. He dumped it into the bin with a loud ting, then placed his mouth in front of the microphone. “Sergeant Cavendish is coming down to talk to you.”

“I'll be waiting,” Carolyn said, opening the file and flipping through the paperwork. She took a seat in a long row of interconnected plastic chairs used by visitors, opening her briefcase and pulling out a release sheet.

As she'd anticipated, the DA had failed to follow through and file charges. An arresting officer could book a subject on probable cause, but he had to back it up with a formal complaint, and the prisoner had to be charged and arraigned in front of a judge within twenty-four hours. She'd finished filling in the particulars when she looked up and saw an enormous man with a square jaw peering down at her. “You Sullivan?”

“Yes,” she said, standing. “Here're the release papers on Daniel Metroix. I'd like them processed as quickly as possible.”

Sergeant Cavendish looked surprised. “You're not going to violate him?”

“No,” Carolyn told him, clasping her briefcase and the metal file to her chest. Cavendish had to be over six-five and couldn't weigh less than three hundred pounds, all of it solid muscle. He reminded her of a Neanderthal. She sensed that he got a kick out of intimidating people, especially small women officers like herself. “I understand there was a problem this morning,” she said. “Metroix's a schizophrenic. He needs his medication.”

“Listen, lady,” Cavendish said, “half the guys in here have some kind of head problem. Your boy assaulted one of our officers. We can file charges against him ourselves.”

Carolyn thrust her shoulders back. “That wouldn't be wise, Sergeant.”

“Oh, yeah,” the sergeant said, one corner of his lip curling. “And why is that?”

“Because he was illegally booked,” she told him, hoping she might be able to bluff him into releasing Daniel. “I was with him when the building blew last night. He's my parolee, and no one can violate his parole except me or a superior at my agency. I informed Detective Sawyer and Officer White that I wasn't prepared to violate his parole. Not only that, regulations state that an inmate has the right to receive proper medical treatment. Metroix was supposed to have an injection either this morning or last night.”

“Did a doctor order this injection when the prisoner was transferred from the hospital?” Cavendish asked, not quite as aggressive as before. “'Cause if we don't have an official order on file, we can't administer it.”

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Carolyn said, rushing off in the direction of the ladies' room.

As soon as she entered a stall, she pulled down the toilet seat, sat down, and opened the metal file. Finding the release papers from the hospital, she saw that the area where follow-up instructions were to be inserted had been left empty, more than likely because Hank had placed Daniel under arrest before the emergency room physician had gotten around to finishing the paperwork.

Carolyn wrote an order that the patient had to be administered an injection by six o'clock that morning. She couldn't recall the exact name of the drug Metroix had told her he was taking, but she remembered jotting down the letters DAP. Before she left the bathroom, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

“Not only do you look like a bag lady,” she told herself, “you're turning into a criminal.” Since Daniel Metroix had come into her life, her world had turned upside down. She'd forged an official document. She hoped the man was the victim she perceived him to be. If not, she had less of a brain than Cavendish.

“I'm sorry,” she told the sergeant, feigning embarrassment. “When nature calls, you know.” He reached for the file, and she quickly stepped back. Until she knew Daniel was going to be released, she didn't want to commit to her deception. If things didn't go the way she planned, she'd have to make another emergency trip to the bathroom.

“He's taking an antipsychotic medication,” Carolyn told him. “It wouldn't be unusual for him to have a violent reaction in withdrawal. You can proceed any way you deem fit, Sergeant. I'm certain your assault charges won't stick, though, since you failed to follow through on the doctor's orders. In reality, the county could be sued and—”

Sergeant Cavendish sighed. “That's enough,” he said. “I'll release this man on one condition.”

“Okay,” she said. “I'm listening.”

“You have to take custody of him,” he told her. “Can you handle that? You ain't that big and this inmate stirred up a lot of trouble this morning.”

And you aren't that smart, you big oaf,
Carolyn was tempted to tell him. “You've got yourself a deal.”

“Give us about thirty minutes and the problem's yours.”

As Cavendish turned around and headed toward the security door, Carolyn wondered how an undertaker would ever get a man his size inside a coffin. His muscles were so over-developed, she didn't think it was possible for his arms and legs to lay flush against his body.

She glanced at her watch. John and Rebecca would be getting home from school in less than an hour, and she was in such a morbid state her thoughts had turned to undertakers. Worse—what was she going to do with Daniel? He'd gone up against five jailers, and if the events of the night before had caused him to become psychotic, he might be as dangerous as everyone kept insisting. She thought about her gun, then realized this was another item that had been lost during the motel explosion.

Carolyn pulled out her personal cell phone and called her house, leaving a message on her answering machine. The phone issued by the county had also been in her purse. She felt guilty as she'd promised Rebecca that she'd be there when she got home from school. John had said he would cook dinner. Unless she came up with another plan fast, they'd be setting an extra plate at the table.